He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother
by EFW
Summary: EPILOGUE ADDED What happens when the boys are stranded and one of them becomes violently ill?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – I checked, and sure enough, they're not mine. Just borrowing them.

Summary – What happens when the boys are stranded and one of them becomes violently ill?

Rated T for swearing.

a/n - Okay, so this started out as a one shot, right after ELAC, (I'm a slow writer) because Dean's inability to talk about his dad's death was driving me crazy. And I figured he would only open up if he was delirious. But then, my little one shot with Delirious Dean took a life of its own.

The story is set between ELAC and Bloodlust, before the Impala made its comeback, before we found out about John and Ellen's husband. Jo isn't in it, because the poor girl just isn't right for Dean, but Ellen is, because I like her and I think she can be the maternal figure the boys could use from time to time. There is nothing supernatural in it, just lots of Dean in pain, Dean in agony, Dean in pain and agony in his boxers, and Protective Introspective Sam.

And, although I did research the medical stuff, some of it just bored me silly, and I might have embellished here and there. Honestly, it's so much more fun to inflict than to cure. Just be glad I'm not your doctor. A big thank you to LP – she knows why.

This is my first SN fic, and there is no beta, so blame me for everything. And the story is complete. I will try and post quickly, as long as you like it, as long as you review…

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_The road is long_

_With many a winding turn_

_That leads us to who knows where_

_Who knows where_

_But I'm strong_

_Strong enough to carry him_

_He ain't heavy, he's my brother_

The Hollies

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter One**

The call from Ash came at 3:15 in the morning. At 3:21 they were in the car, heading back to Ellen's place. Back in time as recent memories dominated their thoughts. Truth be told, neither brother had enjoyed a decent night's sleep since their father's death. A phone call in the middle of the night, even one that promised only more uncertainty, was a welcome reprieve.

Sam stole a glance in his brother's direction, the only way he could look at him these days without eliciting his wrath. Or was that Sam's imagination? Was the guilt that was eating at him making him overly sensitive? It wasn't as if Dean was the epitome of charm and chatter on his good days.

Sam thought about all the times his brother had saved him from harm. From Bloody Mary and the wendigo. From demons to just plain nut jobs. He was always there. Could always count on him. But now, when he needed him most, where was he? Didn't he know that the feelings of despair that threatened to consume him were more dangerous than anything they'd ever encountered? Sam felt the guilt rise like bile. He hated how desperately he needed his brother. How much pressure his brother already felt to take care of him.

"How far?"

Sam appreciated Dean's attempt at small talk, welcomed the interruption of his thoughts. "We're about three, four hours away. Maybe longer," he replied. "Ash said it's been raining for hours, the roads might not be in the best shape. And this car," Sam's voice trailed as he patted the dashboard of the little Volkswagon Bug they had borrowed from Bobby. "May not go past 50 on a good day."

Dean nodded, his brother's presence a painful reminder of his inability to deal. With his father's death. His grief. Life.

"Pick some music. Anything loud." That's it. Give him something to do. Although he doubted it would be loud enough. Dean rubbed his temple. He'd had a headache for two days. Maybe loud wasn't the best thing. Then again, maybe it was.

Why couldn't Sam handle things the way he did? Why couldn't he just shut everything out and ignore it? Remove himself completely from reality? Listen to Bon Scott hit the high notes, pretend...Dean couldn't finish the thought. Why bother?

He took two aspirins out of his pocket and popped them in his mouth. The music was blaring. His head was throbbing. They had a lead on the demon that killed their father. He pressed on the accelerator. The Bug rumbled, the inside rattling like a jet hitting an air pocket. As the scenery escaped alongside them, the night drew closer.

The brothers huddled in their space.

Lost. Scared. Tired. Alone.

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Sam shifted uncomfortably, his long legs needing to stretch. He was surprised to be waking up, surprised he had actually fallen asleep. It was pouring, and water was seeping in through the window, leaving a wet patch on his sleeve.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"How long was I out?"

"A while."

"We almost there?"

"I'm not sure," Dean was straining to see through the windshield. Visibility was about two feet. "It's been raining like this for the last hour. If I read the last sign right, I think we're close."

"You want me to drive?" It was just for show. He knew what the answer would be.

"Sure."

Sam's eyes widened and he opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. He wanted to lean over and put his hand on his brother's forehead, feel for a concussion, a pulse, anything that would explain this turn of events. Instead, he watched silently as Dean pulled over to the side of the road, the car sputtering as it went through a deep puddle.

Dean was out of the car instantly, popping two more pills before Sam had a chance to get out. He rubbed his neck and his head, willing the pounding to go away.

Sam got behind the wheel, fighting the urge to ask Dean if he was okay. Even though it wasn't his beloved Impala, Dean always wanted to drive. He turned the key. The engine sputtered and then nothing. He tried again. No luck, not even a sputter this time.

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know." Sam tried again, pumping the accelerator. Nothing. He looked at Dean.

"Try again."

Sam did as he was told. Still nothing.

"Damn it," Dean swore under his breath. "I think it's flooded. Spark plugs must have gotten wet just now." Dean hit the dashboard with the palm of his hand. "Piece of shit." He could see the water rushing by them. Didn't like the look of it. "We gotta get out of here."

"Can you get it to start?"

"Not in this weather. The plugs have to dry out now."

"How do you propose we…" Sam raised his eyebrows.

"We have no choice, Sam. Look at the water around us. I don't know these parts very well, but we might be in flood country. If we get caught in a flood, this piece of tin isn't going to save us."

"But walking on our own will?"

"Get your bag." Dean was out of the car before Sam could respond.

The rain was coming down hard, cold, and the water on the ground was up to their ankles.

"Dean, this is crazy. Do you even know where we are?" Sam had to shout to be heard above the downpour.

"I think it's just a few miles." Dean had already started walking.

"A few miles?" Sam was running to catch up. "Five, 10, 20 miles?"

"Yeah, something like that."

Sam looked at his watch, surprised to see it was 7:15. The sky was so black, so cloudy, he had thought it was the middle of the night. They had been driving for almost four hours. Maybe they weren't that far after all.

"Dean, what was the last sign you saw?"

"I don't remember. I think it said 12 miles."

"How long ago was that?"

Dean looked in his brother's direction. Why was he asking so many questions? Why couldn't he just shut up and walk? His head was killing him. He was sure it was lack of sleep, lack of food. Neither of which he'd had in the last 48 hours. He tried to cut Sam some slack. Maybe his little brother wouldn't be so irritating if he felt better.

"About 10 minutes ago," he answered. He honestly didn't know when he'd seen the last sign, the road a boring blur for the last three hours. But the response got the desired effect. Sam was calculating in his head, trying to figure out how far away they were, how fast they were walking, when they might get there. At least it would keep him busy for a while.

"We're probably about two, three miles out," he said.

No peace for the wicked, Dean thought, nodding. The movement made him wince.

"Sam!" Dean turned at the sound of his brother falling beside him. "What the hell?"

"Ow." Sam was on his butt, rubbing his shoulder.

"What happened? You okay?"

"I'm fine. I walked into something." Sam let his brother pull him up.

They were standing directly in front of a road sign, all four feet by three feet of it.

"How did I miss that?"

Dean leaned forward, barely six inches from the sign before he could read it, the rain was coming down so hard.

"This is our turn off," he shouted, pointing to the left. "It's a good thing you walked into it or we probably would have missed it."

Sam laughed in spite of himself. It was the nicest thing Dean had said to him in days.

They followed the turn, finally getting their bearings almost an hour later, when they were practically in front of the Roadhouse. By the time they arrived they were drenched, their clothes soaked and ready to wring, their bodies shaking uncontrollably from the cold.

Sam reached the door first, pounding heavily, afraid nothing could be heard above the din of the storm. Ash said he'd be waiting for us, he thought, as he pounded again.

After several minutes that seemed like hours, a groggy Ash came to the door, almost surprised to see them.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath. "You're here." He didn't seem all that happy to see them.

"What?" The brothers couldn't believe their ears, and asked the question in unison.

"The storm, I mean…Damn."

"Ash," Dean shouted, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. "Are you gonna let us in or are you gonna let us freeze to death?"

Ash thought about the question for too long, forcing Sam and Dean to push their way inside.

"What's going on, Ash?" Dean's nerves were frayed, and he had no desire, or capacity, really, for games. "Didn't you call us, at three in the morning, telling us we had to get over here right away?"

"Yes, but," Ash stuttered.

"Ash!" It was spoken louder than Sam or Dean could deal with, and all three men turned to look at the woman who said it.

Ellen was furious. "I thought you told me you'd called them back. Told them to wait until the storm passed before trying to get here."

"I, well…" Ash looked at the two brothers, then back at Ellen. "I thought they'd turn around when they saw the roads were closed."

The roads were closed? How'd they miss that? Sam wrapped his arms around his body, trying to keep warm, and it was then that Ellen really saw them. Got a good look at them.

"Oh God," she said, walking up to them. "Look at you two. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid." She was undressing them, taking off their soaked jackets as she spoke.

"Why do you look like you walked here?" She didn't wait for a response. "I can't believe you're here. The roads have been closed since last night. And I can't believe Ash called you. That's what happens when you sleep all day, are up all night. Too much time on your hands without anyone to keep you from doing stupid things. Take your shirts off, quickly, before you catch something."

Dean was moving too slowly for her and she went to do it for him, hesitating briefly when her hand caught on his stomach. Why is he so warm?

Dean finished the job, more than a little bemused by the whole situation. "Ellen, we're fine," he tried to explain.

"Save it. I know the drill. The demon surfaced. Ash called. You bolted out of bed, yada, yada, yada. You Winchesters are all alike."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

She turned to Dean, the oldest, the one that should know better. "Honestly, did it not occur to you that the roads were treacherous? That maybe you shouldn't be out on a night like this?"

"It wasn't raining when we left."

"Left from where? Oh forget it, I don't want to know. Why are you so wet? Did you drive here in a convertible?"

"Car stalled a while back," Sam offered, trying to take some of the heat off Dean.

"Car stalled. Jesus. You walked here?"

"Go, go, hurry up and change." Ellen was practically pushing them towards the bathroom. "And bring out the rest of your clothes so I can throw them in the wash."

"Yes, Ma'am," Dean said, following orders. For the first time in weeks he felt a little bit of weight lift, and was surprised at how grateful he was to have someone telling him what to do.

Sam, on the other hand, had a bewildered look on his face, and Dean couldn't help but smile.

"What?"

"Nothing," Dean replied, enjoying the moment.

"She's a nut," Sam offered.

Dean nodded, a reminder of the headache that wouldn't go away.

"I still think maybe she and Dad had something, at some point."

Dean mulled it over. "I don't think so. I'm not sure she would've put up with Dad. I don't think she puts up with much."

Sam had to agree. It would have been tough to be in a relationship with his dad. With any of the Winchester men, really. The last thought stung, and he shook it out of his head, preferring to focus on his numb and frozen body. At least that was pain he could handle.

By the time they had changed Ellen had started a fire in her living room, which was just off the kitchen, behind the saloon, and Sam and Dean were given front row seats.

"You'll be lucky if you don't catch pneumonia with your little escapade."

"Ellen, we're fine, really." Dean's words were met with contempt.

"Can it," she said, giving them each a blanket. "When you do something stupid around here you lose the right to argue for a while."

"Where's Jo?" Sam thought he'd change the subject.

"She went to visit a friend yesterday morning, a couple of counties over. I talked to her right before the phone lines went down. She can't get out, so she's staying put until this thing's over."

Just as well, Dean thought. She'd probably be a distraction. Dean took the blanket and put it on the floor.

"Aren't you cold?" Ellen eyed him suspiciously.

"No. I'm not. It's pretty warm in here." Dean looked over at Sam, who was huddled in his blanket as if his life depended on it.

Ellen watched Dean for a moment, until he caught her staring and she looked away. "You boys hungry?" she asked.

"Starving," Sam said.

"I'm okay." Dean knew he had to be hungry. Starving, like Sam. He couldn't even remember the last meal he'd had.

"Coffee would be good," he managed, regretting it the minute he said it. Not even his beloved coffee sounded appealing.

Ellen nodded, disappearing into the kitchen just as Ash showed up.

"Sorry about all that," Ash fumbled for words, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. "She can be a bear when she wants to be. But she's really a pussycat. I didn't know how much you two meant to her." Ash didn't finish the thought.

"What?" Sam didn't get it. Ellen barely knew them.

"A lot of people come and go around here," Ash continued, almost in a whisper. "People that risk their lives every day. People that die every day. She's a master, man. She gets attached to no one. You should've seen her when she found out I'd called you. What you saw this morning, that was nothing compared to how mad she was at me. She's on your side, man. That's for sure."

"She doesn't even know us," Dean argued.

"She knew your father," Ash said solemnly, almost in awe of the man whose notes he'd had the pleasure of studying not too long ago. "That man brings up all kinds of emotions in her."

Sam and Dean exchanged glances, both wanting more information before Ellen came back.

"Here you are," she said, handing them each a cup of coffee and effectively ending the previous conversation. "I'll be right out with breakfast."

"Thanks." Dean took the cup, willing the heavenly smell to open up his appetite. No such luck. It made him gag instead.

"You okay?" Sam missed nothing.

"What? Yeah, I'm fine. I spilled some, it's hot." Dean turned to Ash. "Did she say anything about our dad?" It was a whisper.

"It was kind of a rant. At four in the morning. It wasn't pretty."

Ash heard Ellen returning and moved away, clearly uncomfortable having this conversation. Ellen was very good to him. He loved her like a sister, even though she treated him like a child. He would never betray any of her secrets, but he felt the brothers needed an explanation for her behavior. Didn't want them to think they weren't welcome, when in fact it was quite the opposite.

Ellen handed them a plate filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. More food than they had seen in one sitting in a while. Sam devoured it, practically eating with his hands, the fork just too small to fit it all in.

Dean played with it, keeping the plate as far away as possible. Keeping the smell at a distance. It was hard to ignore the nausea rising in his throat.

"Aren't you hungry?" Sam asked, his mouth full.

"Yeah," Dean lied, forcing a bite of eggs into his mouth. He had to be hungry. He was sure the headache was the result of lack of food. Catch 22. Lack of food was causing the headache. The headache was keeping him from eating. He decided to break the cycle, forcing the food down.

He managed half the breakfast, leaving behind a couple of slices of bacon and some eggs Sam quickly ate.

"Good job," Ellen said, taking their plates. She was treating them like two year-olds, she realized. But she didn't care. They had acted like two year-olds. How many times hadn't she thought the same thing about their father? That single-mindedness verging on insanity that propelled him to risk everything in order to make something better that could never be better. That could never exist the way he had known it.

"Hey, Ellen, do you have any newspapers?" Dean was out of his chair, standing before her.

"Yes," she said, coming out of her reverie. "There's about a week's worth behind the bar." Dean nodded and walked away, unable to make eye contact.

What was it about him that was making her uncomfortable this morning? Ellen couldn't put her finger on it. But something wasn't right.

Dean barely made it to the bar, to the bathroom, far away from everyone, before collapsing in front of the toilet. The breakfast he had just forced down came up in one violent swell, leaving him shaking, heaving, his head throbbing mercilessly. He pushed himself away from the toilet, his back against the stall. He was trembling, his hands unable to settle long enough to wipe the sweat that was trickling down his face.

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So, what do you think? Should I keep posting? Please review and let me know – it would make me so happy…


	2. Chapter 2

First off, THANK YOU so much for all the wonderful reviews. You guys made me so happy!

a/n – Okay, so I'm a humanities girl, and this chapter includes a little scientific information I kind of made up on the fly. For those science geeks out there (and I say that in the most loving way), if you feel the need to roll your eyes (and laugh hysterically) please do so in the most loving way. :-)

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter Two**

Dean wrapped his arms tightly around his body, a futile attempt to stop the shaking. Oh God, he shuddered, please don't let me have the flu. Sam would be hard enough to deal with, but mama bear he knew he couldn't cope with.

Vaguely aware that time was passing, that if he stayed there long enough someone would come looking for him, Dean forced himself forward, hands on the toilet. In one swift motion he pushed himself up, his body dead against the door as he waited for the room to stop spinning.

"Come on, dude," he whispered, hazily aware of his own voice. "Get it together." Dean shook his head to clear it, regretting the action instantly. His head felt like it was in a vice, ready to explode. With superhuman resolve he let himself out of the stall and made his way to the sink, frantically splashing cold water on his face.

When he allowed himself to look in the mirror, he couldn't believe what he saw. His eyes were glassy, dull, feverish. Did he have a fever? He felt his neck, his face. He couldn't tell. He splashed more water on his face, until his skin burned from the cold.

Someone was in the bar. Were they looking for him? How long had he been in there? Dean straightened up, wiped his face dry and didn't look in the mirror again as he made his way back to the bar. If he could forget how he looked, maybe he could forget how he felt.

"Hey." It was Ellen. Dean was hoping she would be easier to fool than his brother. "Did you find the papers?"

"No," he said, surprised at the smoothness of his voice. "Nature called."

"They're right here," Ellen said, taking them off the counter behind the bar.

Dean took them, again unable to make eye contact.

"Sorry about earlier," she offered, hoping he would look at her.

"We're the ones, we should be apologizing." He was taught to look at people when he spoke to them. He had to. It was rude. She had just fed them. Not that he was thankful for that.

"We're the ones that barged in." He looked her in the eyes for a fraction of a second, almost daring her to find something. To see beyond the surface.

"You didn't barge in," Ellen offered. "An invitation from Ash is as good as one from me. I was just worried. You two have been through a lot lately."

Dean nodded. What could he say to that?

"I'll leave you to your reading," she said, making her way back to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home. You're probably stuck here for at least a day or two."

"Thanks." Dean headed to one of the tables in the corner, not pleased with Ellen's prediction. The last thing he needed was to be cooped up in this place. Sam would have a field day with him the minute he was bored. No doubt wanting to bond over their shared loss and his inability to feel. If he only knew all he could do was feel.

With his back to her, Ellen hesitated at the doorway. Why couldn't she shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't right? Her intuition had always served her well. Why was she questioning it now? She knew why, she just didn't like admitting it, not even to herself.

Besides her late husband, John Winchester was the only one that had ever gotten past her protective façade. When it came to him, and obviously now his boys, she couldn't trust her better judgment.

She looked at Dean in the corner of the bar. Elbows on the table, shoulders hunched, deep in thought. Or was he really reading? She pushed down the feelings of dread, ignoring them for the time being. If something was wrong she would find out soon enough. She always did.

Dean could sense Ellen was still around, lurking somewhere, watching him. He pretended to read and tried to ignore her. He was actually feeling a little better. The nausea was gone, and so was the dizziness. Only the stubborn headache remained. Maybe it was a mild case of the flu. Mild was good. Mild might even go unnoticed from watchful eyes. He would have to keep his distance, avoid contact as much as possible, and he might just get through it without all the fuss.

"Dean?"

Now what?

"I'm in here."

Sam walked into the bar followed by Ash, who was carrying his laptop. In spite of himself, Dean immediately perked up. He had to be sick, how else could he have forgotten why they were there. Ash had gotten a signal from the demon.

"What do you have?" He was pleased with how steady his voice sounded, betraying nothing from the previous 20 minutes. Maybe it wasn't the flu after all, just some weird bug that had already passed through his system.

"Well," Ash began, joining Sam and Dean at the table. "According to the components I installed, based on your father's calculations, of course."

Dean nodded, "Of course."

"The demon is present when this graph over here," Ash pointed to a diagram on the top left hand corner of the screen, "reaches a vibration of 2500 hertz. Which it did at exactly 3:12 this morning."

"So when it gets to that frequency does it also lead you to a location?" Sam asked.

"Not by itself, but that's where your father's genius comes in. And mine, of course," Ash added.

"Of course."

"The vibrational component is triggered by the demon's sulfuric residue, which in turn sends a signal to the longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates, based on the mass of the particles calculated."

"The mass of particles? We're talking weightless, microscopic components." Sam was working the variables in his head.

"It's why this system kicks ass, dude." Ash could barely contain himself. "What is being measured for detection is so minute, so inconsequential, the demon isn't even aware someone is tracking it, providing the hunter, you," he said, exaggerating the effect by pointing at both brothers, "with the element of surprise."

"Let me get this straight," Dean said, his hand absently rubbing his forehead. "You're saying that with this system the minute he shows up anywhere you know?"

"Damn straight."

"Then why couldn't our dad do this?"

Ash pondered the question for a moment. "He hadn't met me," he finally said, no sarcasm or irony in his voice. "He had all the components, but hadn't figured out a way to link them together. He knew one switch would flip the next, almost in a domino effect, but he hadn't quite figured out how to line up all the pieces. He was relying on weather patterns, crop circles, all good shit, but by the time those showed up the demon had already been stirring up trouble for a while."

"So when the vibration reached 2500 hertz this morning, it sent coordinates?" Sam asked.

"Yep."

"Is it still sending them?"

"Yep."

"Where is it?"

"Palo Alto."

"What?" Sam was glad he was sitting.

"According to your dad's notes," Ash continued, "the demon has spent quite a bit of time in the area during the last couple of years."

Dean glanced at Sam, who refused to look at him.

"That mean anything?" Ash was sorry he asked the minute he did.

"Yes," Dean answered, at the same time Sam was shaking his head.

"It doesn't mean anything," Sam argued. "Not now. Not anymore."

Dean didn't know what to make of Sam's response. Did that mean that Stanford was so far behind him, so far removed from his life that it had lost all meaning? He suddenly felt an overwhelming sadness for his brother.

"I'm not following it to California," Sam said, his jaw set.

"It may be our only chance."

"I don't care." Sam couldn't believe his own ears, but he couldn't keep from blurting out the words. As much as he wanted to avenge his father's death, his mother's, his girlfriend's, he didn't think he could go back to Palo Alto and be an unbiased hunter. Not now. He knew his emotions would get the best of him, probably getting his brother killed in the process.

"We kill it, you go back to school." Dean couldn't possibly see beyond his brother's words. Beyond the mask of self assurance.

Sam looked at his brother. The hurt was palpable, almost unbearable. "Until the next one comes looking for me? For you? For…" He couldn't finish the thought. He didn't think he'd ever have another girlfriend anyway, so why pretend.

"What happened to avenging Mom's death, and Dad's and Jess'? Wasn't that all you could think of? Isn't that the only reason you've put up with me for the last year?"

The words shocked Sam, but the look he gave his brother betrayed none of the hurt, only the contempt.

"Come on, Sam," Dean couldn't stop himself, even though he knew better. "Now's not the time to pretend you enjoy spending time with me."

"Why are you doing this? Why do you insist on pushing me away at every opportunity?"

Ash kept glancing from one brother to the next, unable to break away, to afford them the privacy he knew he should.

"This is not about you, Sam. This is about getting that yellow eyed son of a bitch. It's about getting you to admit that we need to go to Palo Alto."

"And why can't you see that I can't do that. Why can't you see me as more than the cardboard cutout of your little brother?" Sam was beyond telling Dean the truth, the argument no longer in his control.

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, that there is more than one side to me. Just like there is to you, but you're too twisted and stubborn to acknowledge it."

Dean stared at him, unable to see where his brother was headed.

Cardboard cutout of Dean," Sam continued, his words exaggerated. "I am a fierce hunter. I kill bad things. I take no prisoners. I down a few beers at the end of the day and I go to sleep. I get up and do it again. I feel nothing. I love nothing, because if I did, and I lost it, I couldn't live with myself."

"Fuck you." Dean had heard enough. The conversation was over. He was damned if he was going to listen to another lecture from his brother about how he wasn't handling his father's death. How he wasn't facing his feelings. He stood up to leave just as there was a loud crash behind the bar.

Ash was on his feet and out of the room instantly, the two brothers close behind.

"Ellen?" Ash was genuinely concerned as he searched the house, running from room to room.

"I'm in Jo's room," she shouted.

Sam and Dean followed Ash to Jo's room, where they found Ellen sitting in the middle of a downpour atop Jo's bed, plaster from the ceiling all around her.

"Are you okay?" Dean was the first one by her side.

"I'm fine. I wasn't in here when it happened." She was looking at the massive hole in the roof, mesmerized, unable to get out from under it.

Dean took her arm and guided her out of the way.

"There's no telling how secure the area around the hole is," he said. "You really shouldn't be anywhere near it."

Ellen nodded, looking up in dismay, then back down to Jo's bed. The water was coming down in torrents and the two foot hole was causing damage by the minute.

"Do you have any plastic tarps?" Sam asked. "We could go up there and cover the hole for the time being, otherwise the room is going to be flooded."

"No," Ellen answered. "It's too dangerous. The roof is bound to be slippery right now."

Dean surveyed the room. "Sam's right," he said. "If we don't do something you're going to have to replace the carpet, the baseboards, the drywall. Depending on how much longer the rain continues, you may even be dealing with mold."

"There are tarps in the garage," Ash offered. "I'll go get them."

"Do you have a ladder?" Sam asked.

"It's in the garage too," Ellen said, in spite of her better judgment. "Please be careful up there. The nearest hospital is 20 miles away, and we have no way of getting there if we need to. Jo has my car."

"Don't worry," Dean said. "We'll be fine. In the meantime, you should put some buckets in here to try and stop some of the damage until we've had a chance to secure something." He felt so much better when he had a purpose, a mission. If only the headache would go away.

Sam and Ash were already in the garage, pulling out tarps that had seen better days, a rickety ladder that was close to seeing its last days, and various other tools from a dilapidated tool chest.

It was obvious instantly that Ash, the computer genius, was tool shed illiterate, and didn't know one end of a hammer from the other, or what the purpose of a screwdriver was. By default he was assigned to hold the ladder while the brothers made their way onto the roof.

A strong wind had picked up, making the rain appear to be falling horizontally, assaulting them with a nasty sting every time they moved. By the time they were on the roof they were drenched, their shoes sinking into the soft shingles with every step. Dean was surprised more of the ceiling hadn't already come down.

"Be careful," he shouted to Sam. "The wood is soggy, and really old. You don't want to go through it and land on Ellen."

Sam nodded, shading his face so he could see in front of him.

The roof was angled, and the only way to avoid slipping was to climb on their hands and knees in search of the hole.

"I found it," Sam shouted, further up and to the right of Dean.

Dean followed, the tarp under one arm, Sam carrying the hammer and nails.

Sure enough, just as Dean had predicted, the area around the hole was precarious at best, and several more shingles fell into Jo's room while they were trying to position the tarp.

A quick glance into the room and Dean noticed Ellen standing in a corner, looking up at them.

"Ellen," he shouted. "Get out of there."

"I'm okay."

"No," Sam backed him up. "It's really loose up here. You're not safe in there. Go."

Ellen heeded the advice and did as she was told, not happy with the situation.

Dean had finished covering the hole with the tarp when Sam began to nail down the first side. It was impossible to see what he was doing and the second swing of the hammer came down on his thumb.

"Son of a bitch." Without thinking, Sam let go of the hammer and grabbed his thumb. By the time Dean realized what was happening, the hammer had skidded halfway down the roof.

"You okay?" Dean shouted.

Sam nodded, still nursing his thumb. "The hammer."

"I see it. Hang on to the tarp." Sam held the tarp with his good hand and watched as Dean began to slide down the roof, towards the wayward hammer.

Moving backwards, on all fours, Dean ended up about five feet to the left of the hammer. He was inching his way sideways, reaching with his right hand, when he felt a twinge through his stomach that didn't feel right.

Not now, he thought, wondering what could possibly be left inside of him to throw up. He ignored the pain and continued on his way, the hammer inches away when a wave of nausea and dizziness hit him, almost making him lose his balance. He was flat on his stomach, his face against the roof, when he realized what had happened. He swallowed hard, ignoring the pelting rain on his cheek as he tried to regain control.

"Dean!"

He looked up to see Sam looking down at him, face barely visible. But Dean didn't have to see his face to know what it looked like. Nor did he have to hear what he was saying to know he was asking him if he was all right.

Dean held up a hand, hoping the gesture would suffice. Get your shit together, he told himself, once again reaching for the hammer. This time he succeeded, wrapping his fingers tightly around the handle as he made his way back up to his brother.

"What happened?"

"I slipped." Not entirely a lie. He wanted to offer to do the hammering, but honestly didn't think he could handle it. What the hell was wrong with him?

"How's the thumb?" he asked, handing Sam the hammer.

"I'll live."

They worked in silence for the next 10 minutes, Sam hammering slowly, fiercely protective of his thumb, Dean holding onto the tarp, keeping the wind from claiming it.

And there it was again, another spasm across his stomach. Except this time, it felt more like a stabbing pain, more insidious than before. Dean sucked in his breath, incapable of stopping it.

Sam looked up at him. "Did you say something?"

Dean shook his head, not trusting his voice, or what might come out of his mouth if he dared open it.

"I'm almost done."

Dean nodded, and quickly looked down, hiding his face as another jolt ripped into him.

"Dean! Dean!" Sam had his hand on his shoulder when Dean managed to look up at him. "You're sitting on the last piece I need to seal."

Sam hadn't noticed anything was wrong and Dean was suddenly thankful for the torrential downpour.

With the last of the nails in place, Dean let Sam take the lead as they headed back down. He could see Sam had reached the top of the ladder, was only a few feet away from him, when the most excruciating pain he had ever felt kicked him from the inside out. Instinctively, forgetting where he was or what he was doing, he grabbed his stomach and doubled over, collapsing on his side.

What the hell? Dean was scrambling for answers, for an explanation. He was frozen in place, unable to breathe, to move, scared of attempting either one. Stomach flu? Was his body lashing out because of all the torture he put it through? Because he hadn't fed it in two days? It's not like he hadn't tried. His feeble attempt at breakfast had failed miserably. Whose fault was that? He was certain he was delirious. Why else would he be having this conversation with himself? On a roof, in the middle of a downpour.

"Dean?"

Damn it.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

Fuck.

"Dean?"

He could hear Sam coming back up the ladder. Can't let him see me like this. He's got enough on his plate. Quick, do something. Say something.

"I'm okay," he shouted with all his strength. "My sleeve got caught on a shingle." Luckily, he had his back to Sam.

"You need some help?"

"No, I got it."

Dean got back up on all fours, slower than he wanted to, faster than he should have, and waved towards his brother. Sam, satisfied, climbed back down.

The pain was gone, almost as quickly as it had appeared, but the movement made his head spin, and he was suddenly so dizzy he wasn't sure which way was up, or down. He tried to lie flat, against the shingles, when he swayed too far in one direction and lost his balance.

The slide down the roof was so quick he didn't realize what was happening until his feet were dangling twenty feet in the air, the fall halted by a razor sharp loose edge of the rain gutter that sliced though his jacket and his arm before becoming embedded in his sleeve.

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So, what do you think? Please review and let me know…it keeps me going…keeps me posting…


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you a million times for all the wonderful reviews. I think I've responded to all of them, but if I missed you, please accept my undying gratitude!

a/n – Sometimes we see only what we want to see, or what we can handle. :-)

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter Three**

The sharp sting from the metal that ripped across his arm made Dean forget how he ended up where he was, his attention focused on the burning sensation tearing through his flesh.

"Dean! Hang on!"

Sam grabbed the ladder and pulled it towards his brother.

Smart man, Dean thought, feeling the threads of his jacket, the bits that were keeping him in mid air, start to give way. His attempt to grab the gutter with his free hand was short lived. He couldn't reach it and the gutter itself was shifting precariously above him.

He was hanging in front of a column that was on one end of the patio, making it impossible for Sam to place the ladder directly in front of him.

"Dean, grab the ladder with your free hand."

Easier said than done, college boy. Dean swung his arm towards the ladder and his jacket ripped again, his body dangling by mere threads.

"Bring it closer," he shouted.

"The column's in the way," Sam shot back.

Dean stretched as far as he could, his jacket ripping in sync with his movements, the last of the fabric giving way just as he managed to grab a rung. He held his breath and shut his eyes as his body slammed against the side of the ladder, the sudden pain that shot through him almost causing him to lose his grip.

The extra weight caught Sam by surprise, sending him scrambling backwards as he tried to steady the ladder.

"Dean," Sam shouted, "get your feet on a rung and come down."

Another great idea, genius. He didn't have the strength to comply with his brother's request. His arm was throbbing, he could feel blood trickling, or was it gushing, into his hand, and he was processing in slow motion.

Sam was watching Dean struggle to get his feet on a rung, hanging on to the ladder with one hand, when he realized something was wrong. Why was Dean making this so hard? Why wasn't he using both hands? It was then that he noticed the blood stained rain falling from Dean's left hand.

Oh God. I didn't know he was hurt.

"Ash, hang on to the ladder. I'm going up."

Ash's eyes widened as he gripped the rickety old ladder with both hands.

Thankful that he was tall, Sam only needed to go up four rungs before reaching his brother. He grabbed Dean's right leg and swung it onto the ladder, holding his breath when he felt the ladder shift beneath him.

Only then was Dean able to get his other foot over.

Sam patted him on the leg on his way down. "Come on, Dean," he urged. "Get down."

Dean followed his brother's order, albeit a little slower than he would have liked. He was suddenly so tired.

When he finally touched solid ground, it felt anything but. His legs reacted stubbornly, refusing to comply with his demands, and buckled easily underneath him.

Sam was right beside him, reaching out to keep him from toppling over.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Dean was pushing him away.

"Dean, if I'm not mistaken, you're hurt. There's blood all over your hand, your jacket."

"Flesh wound, Sammy."

His voice sounded funny, far away and distant, and Sam did a double take. Dean looked flushed, out of sorts. Of course he did. He was hurt. He was wet. He was cold. But Sam kept staring, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that he was missing something.

Dean took Sam's hesitation as an opportunity to walk away, to hide what he knew Sam was looking for.

Sam opened his mouth in protest, then had a better idea. "Fine," he said, ignoring his brother and walking back into the house. He wasn't up to playing any more games.

"Ellen?"

Oh shit. Dean knew he'd lost.

"Great job," Ellen said, coming up to Sam. "Nothing is getting through." One look at Sam and she stopped in her tracks. "What's the matter? Where's Dean?"

"He's hurt."

"What? Where is he?"

"Outside. Being obstinate."

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure. His sleeve got caught on a shingle, next thing I know he's hanging from the rain gutter."

"Did he fall?"

"No. But his arm is bleeding. I don't know how serious it is."

"Just what I was afraid of," Ellen mumbled, heading outside.

Dean was standing by Ash, having a conversation Ellen knew was for her benefit. She didn't have to get close to realize something wasn't right. The way Dean was holding his left arm, protectively against his stomach, the way he kept shifting uncomfortably, almost swaying, and in the rain no less.

"Dean Winchester!" The shout scared Ash more than anything.

Dean closed his eyes. It was barely eleven in the morning. When was this day going to end? He turned to Ellen and forced a smile.

He was in no mood. His mind was racing, trying to figure out exactly what had happened on the roof. Except for a mild ache, the pain that doubled him over was gone, as was the dizziness. The only remnants were the headache, a trusted friend by now, and the nausea, which could easily be the result of the cut in his arm and the sticky blood he could feel oozing out of it. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that the cut and the blood were the least of his problems.

Ellen was at his side, taking him by his good arm and leading him into the house. He didn't have the energy to argue, and if he was honest with himself, he needed to sit down.

It was as if she could read his mind, because within moments Dean was sitting in Ellen's kitchen, vaguely aware that she was talking to him while she washed her hands.

"I'm going to take your jacket off," she was saying. "That sleeve is mangled beyond repair." Nothing. No response. Ellen continued, talking mostly to make herself feel better.

"This might hurt a little," she said, once the right sleeve was off.

Dean stiffened but said nothing. Sam was watching him from the doorway. What was that expression on his face? Contempt? Pity? Hatred? He couldn't see compassion or concern. Couldn't see love or fear. Could only see what his own insecurities and grief allowed him to see. A nearsighted spin on his relationship with his brother.

Ellen didn't miss the interaction, and quickly decided she needed Dean focused on her, not torturing himself or his brother with whatever dysfunctional mayhem existed between them.

"Sam," she said as gently as possible. "Your clothes are in the dryer, in the room off of the family room. Why don't you get them and put them on. You're soaking wet."

Sam understood and nodded, disappearing without a word. He wanted to stay, to watch, to pick up a sign that would give him the reassurance he craved. He could no longer recognize where practical concern ended and paranoia began when it came to his brother, and he found himself questioning Dean's every move, every gesture. It was driving Dean crazy, that much he knew, and yet, like a small child with separation anxiety, he couldn't help leaving the kitchen with a knot in his throat.

Ellen turned to Dean, biting her lip as she tried to ignore Sam's expression. What had these boys seen and done and lived through that led to these powerful interactions, even when they only glanced at each other for passing seconds?

"You need to get out of this wet t-shirt," she finally said, trying to ignore the sense of dread rising in her throat. "Can you lift your arm?"

Dean nodded and lifted his arm gingerly, allowing Ellen to take off the shirt. He was glad Ellen had sent Sam away, not having the strength or the energy to deal with his brother's emotions. With his own.

"That's better," Ellen said, drying his upper body with a kitchen towel. "We'll worry about the jeans in a minute. Let's take a look at this arm first."

She could see the jagged tear that began above the elbow and ended about five inches higher. As gently as possible, she put her fingers on either side of the cut and pulled it apart.

Dean winced.

"Sorry," she said. " I just want to see how deep it is. See if you need stitches or not. How did this happen?" she asked, as she continued to probe around the wound.

Is she fucking kidding me? She might as well be sticking her entire fist in there, Dean thought, trying hard to keep it together. She wants me to speak to her right now?

"Rain gutter," he managed.

"Ouch."

No shit.

"I hope you've had a tetanus shot recently."

Dean shrugged. He had no idea. Who knows what they'd pumped into him in the hospital after the accident.

"I think you're in luck," she finally said. "The deepest point is right here at the bottom, where it probably started, and where most of the blood is coming from. But then it's more of a flesh wound than anything. I think four or five stitches right here, near the elbow, and then some steri strips on the rest is all you need."

Dean nodded, trying hard to be grateful that it was only four or five stitches and not 20 or 30.

Ellen hesitated, looking into Dean's eyes. "You feel pretty warm to the touch."

"It's hot in here."

She wasn't buying it. "Your legs are shaking, Dean. You're soaking wet."

What's your point, lady? Dean was thankful he was in too much pain to have a real conversation. He was happy just imagining all the things he wanted to say.

"I think you have a fever." She reached up to touch his forehead but he backed away.

Ellen didn't force the issue and brought her hand down. "If you do," she said, "it's not from the cut. It's too recent, too soon to be infected. Were you feeling okay before this happened?"

Dean took a deep breath. "I'm fine. I just need to get out of these clothes." He was suddenly very cold, and was clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

Ellen didn't believe him, but didn't push the subject. He was already miserable, why make it worse.

"Okay," she said, turning her back to him. "Let's get this done so you can go change." She reached into a cabinet underneath the sink and pulled out the biggest first aid kit Dean had ever seen.

"I know, it's huge," she said, not missing his expression. "You should see the injuries that come through here. And unless it's life or death, no one ever wants to go to a hospital.

"Sounds familiar." His voice was barely a whisper. A monotone with no feeling.

Ellen didn't like the sound of it, but didn't know what to do with the information, so she proceeded cautiously.

"I'm glad you only need a few stitches," she said matter of factly. "I can do them, have done them dozens of times, but I'm not a big fan."

"Sam's pretty good at it," Dean offered, regretting it the minute he said it.

Ellen looked at him with sad eyes, and again she wondered what kind of life these boys had led. What had John done to them?

"Here we go," she said, taking what she needed from the first aid kit, trying to hide the sorrow.

Dean looked at the supplies suspiciously, not looking forward to the cleaning of the wound he knew was coming.

"It's just hydrogen peroxide," Ellen said, reading his mind. "I dilute it with water, it's too strong otherwise, and it doesn't sting as much."

Yeah. Right. Whatever.

Ellen boiled some water and washed her hands again, only to put on a pair of latex gloves.

Sam never does that. Maybe they should add latex gloves to their first aid kit. Dean feared delirium was taking hold, he was so cold.

When she had everything she needed laid out on the table before her, Ellen looked at him. "You ready?"

No, he thought, and nodded.

"Okay, I like to talk as I go, so there are no surprises," she said. "Unless you prefer I don't."

"Whatever." Dean didn't think he'd hear her anyway.

Ellen took that as a sign to continue. "The first thing I am going to do is irrigate the wound with the hydrogen peroxide mixture." She pulled out an old Windex bottle, the label barely readable.

"Windex?"

"I got tired of preparing the stuff every time someone came in here with an injury. Now it's always ready. The Windex bottle seems to work."

Prodding as gently as she could to make sure it got into every bit of the open flesh, Ellen began squirting the liquid into the wound.

If he hadn't felt so awful Dean might have laughed, the site of the cleaning bottle hard to ignore. Instead, he sucked in a painful breath, clenching his teeth and shutting his eyes tightly while Ellen worked.

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm almost done." And then she did it again.

Son of a bitch. Dean gripped the side of the chair with his good hand, his entire body tensing as his back arched uncontrollably. It took every ounce of strength he had to keep from crying out. He knew Sam was nearby. Out of sight but certainly not out of earshot. And he refused to give him anything else to worry about, not if he could help it.

"Done," Ellen said, placing her hand gently on the back of his neck to ease the shaking. Even through the gloves, he was hot to the touch. She looked at the wound again, making sure she wasn't missing any signs of early infection. It was impossible, she knew, but she was certain Dean had a high fever. And if the cut wasn't the culprit, then what was?

One thing at a time, she told herself, forcing her mind back to the task at hand.

"Dean," she began again. "I'm now going to put a wash cloth soaked in hot water over the cut, just briefly, to help cauterize it and stop any residual bleeding."

Dean didnt bother to respond. Would it make a difference?

A strangled cry slipped when the hot cloth touched his skin, and he didn't even notice, he was trying so hard not to pass out. The dizziness and nausea from earlier was back and he thought he was going to fall off the chair.

"Hey, you okay?"

He didn't think he could lie his way out of this one. Certainly not while the room was spinning.

"Just a little dizzy, that's all." It was barely a whisper.

This doesn't add up, Ellen thought, looking at Dean for clues. The glassy, unfocused stare, the flushed cheeks, the deep gulps for air, all pointed to more than the nasty cut she was treating. Her ministrations were painful to be sure, but there was more here than met the eye.

She wrapped her arms around Dean's shoulders and leaned him against her, hoping her warmth and steady hand would help settle him.

Dean took deep breaths for several minutes, until he could open his eyes without the room spinning, pushing his head away from Ellen as soon as he could.

"Better?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, let's finish this up quickly so you can go lie down."

"I don't need to..."

"Whatever," Ellen said, threading the needle. "You are so your father'son." If she wasn't so worried, she might have been amused. How many times hadn't she cleaned out some nasty wound of John's only to have the same conversation?

Ellen stopped talking, and focused on the stitches, doing them so quickly Dean was barely able to register the sting from the needle by the time she was done. His silence, and the lack of emotion that followed, only increased her anxiety, her mind racing as she tried to decipher the puzzle before her.

"There," she said when she was finished wrapping the arm, a forced cheerfullness creeping into her voice. "Good as new."

In spite of himself, Dean appreciated the optimism.

"Thanks," he said, feeling slightly embarrassed. He'd had injuries much worse than this one and he'd never had an episode like that dizzy spell.

"Don't mention it. And I thought it would be dull without Jo around,"

Dean tried to smile, but couldn't pull it off.

"You need some help getting out of those wet pants?"

Dean looked at her, his glassy eyes not quite reading her.

It was all Ellen could do not to laugh. "I'm not offering, Dean. I was thinking more like Sam. He could help if you need it."

"I'm okay, thanks. I just need my pants."

"I'll go get them for you."

Ellen left him in the kitchen and went into the family room, where she found Sam sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead, his mind a million miles away.

"Hey."

"Oh, hey. Is he okay?"

"He's fine," she lied. Why worry Sam when she didn't know what was really wrong in the first place. "It was pretty superficial, although you'd never know it from all the blood."

"Does he need stitches?"

"Five. Near the elbow. I did them already."

"Thanks." Sam felt himself sinking into the couch a little, relief finally letting him relax. It had taken every ounce of willpower he had to stay out of the kitchen.

"Are those his clothes?" Ellen pointed to a pile on the couch next to Sam. "He needs to get out of those wet pants."

"Oh yeah," he said, handing them to her. "Can I help with anything?"

"No, I'm fine, Sam, thanks. I'll send Dean out here as soon as he's done."

I can hardly wait, Sam thought. Not eager to deal with the inevitable 'the demon's in Palo Alto we have to go' conversation he knew was coming.

Ellen went back into the kitchen, grateful to find Dean exactly where she had left him.

"Here," she said, handing him his dry clothes. "You sure you don't need any help?"

"I'm sure."

Dean stood up slowly, not trusting the room to stay in one place, happy when it did.

"Hey, Ellen?"

"What is it?"

"Do you have any aspirin?"

"Oh sure, of course I do. I'm sorry. That should have been the first thing I gave you. How many do you want? Two, three?"

"Four."

Ellen handed him the pills and a glass of water, resisting the urge to help him drink it. If it was possible, he was looking worse by the minute. Why couldn't he admit that something was wrong? That he wasn't well? Maybe he doesn't even know, she thought, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. He's obviously fighting something. It was flu season. Maybe that was it.

"Thanks," he said, handing her the glass. "I'll be out in a minute."

Dean turned and headed for the bathroom, grateful to be out from under Ellen's watchful gaze. He couldn't believe he'd succumbed to her touch, let her wrap her arms around him, if only for an instant. Couldn't believe he'd needed to. He felt like shit. Every limb, every joint ached. Was he hot? Did he have a fever? He felt his forehead again and again he couldn't tell.

He missed his car. He wanted so desperately to crawl inside it and lie down. He could almost feel the leather against his skin. And he wondered with a passing sadness if four walls would ever represent home.

What the hell is wrong with me, he thought for the tenth time that day. A cursory look in the mirror did nothing to quell the fear rising in his throat. He looked like death warmed over. No wonder Ellen was acting the way she was.

With the limited use of his left arm, and with a tenacity he didn't know he had, it took Dean forever to get the wet pants off and the dry ones on. Getting the t-shirt over his head and injured arm took even longer, but by the time he was done splashing water on his face, he felt ready to face the world, or at least Sam.

It was when he reached for the doorknob that his body told him it had other plans.

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There it is. Let me know what you think, please – let me know if you want to read more…


	4. Chapter 4

Again, I cannot thank you enough for all the reviews. I so appreciate them!

a/n – this is a longer chapter – hopefully answers some questions…or at least a question.

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter Four**

Dean didn't know what hit him. The pain that pounded his insides sucked the wind out of him and dropped him to his knees. Unable to do anything but writhe in agony, he gave up the urge to stand, to make it right, and curled on the floor, waiting for the pulsating throbs to pass.

After a few minutes, when he was sure he was on the edge, about to topple down a dark abyss, on the verge of screaming out Sam's name, the beating stopped, almost as suddenly as it began. Slowly, using his hands for support, he pushed himself up to a sitting position, and waited. For his breathing to slow down. For the trembling to go away. For the grip of terror to pass.

I have to tell Sam, he thought. I can't do this alone. Something's wrong, terribly wrong. But what could Sam do? Nothing. They were trapped, no cars, no passable roads even if they had a car. No, telling Sam would be selfish, would only worry him. Would make things worse. Whatever this was, he could get through it on his own.

Maybe it was E. coli. He vaguely remembered reading there was an outbreak going around. God knows they ate in some questionable food holes. How long did it take for that bug to rear its ugly head? The thought of the virus wasn't terribly comforting, but it was better than having no idea, no clue as to what was making him so sick. At least it gave him something to focus on besides the dread of the unknown gnawing at him.

With new found resolve, with a plan and a mission to figure out what was wrong, Dean stood up, slowly, using the wall and the sink for support.

"Dean?" It was Ellen. "You okay in there?"

"Fine. I'll be right out." His voice was shaky at best, betraying his best intentions, but Dean didn't even notice, he was so intent on slowing down his heart rate. The pounding sounded like a jackhammer, and he caught himself with a hand on his chest, trying vainly for a semblance of normalcy. For the beating to slow down before his heart came out through his mouth.

As he leaned against the sink, time came to a standstill, his expression changing every time he dared glance in the mirror. He tried forcing a smile, practice for the curious looks he was bound to get from Sam and Ellen, but couldn't even fake one for his own sake, and after a while gave up staring at himself, convinced he looked worse every time he did so.

He took a deep breath and winced, breathing now topping the list of things he couldn't do without feeling pain, and began rubbing his mouth and chin compulsively, as if doing so enough times could alter his reality. It occurred to him that he'd like to stay right where he was, away from the world, but he knew it was a matter of time before Sam came looking for him. So he decided to head him off at the pass. Say hello, walk away, move on. If he was lucky, Sam would still be mad at him and leave him alone.

More than a little anxious, Dean finally left the protection of the bathroom and gingerly made his way to his brother. He was finding it difficult to stand up straight without hurting, so he hobbled his way to Sam, standing tall only when he had to, when Sam couldn't miss him.

"You okay?" Sam was eyeing him warily.

"I'm fine." It was so easy to lie to Sam.

"You look like hell." And so easy for Sam to see right through it.

"Nice to see you too." Dean looked away, not wanting to give Sam too much time to size him up, to look into his eyes and get nothing in return. "Where's the laptop?

"In my bag, in the bar." Sam was aware that Dean was hiding something, turning his back to him to avoid his gaze was so predictable. "You want me to get it?"

"No, I got it."

Dean left the room as quickly as he entered it, leaving Sam more anxious than he had been. He had replayed the scene on the roof, going over every detail, a hundred times. Dean had seemed a little sluggish, slower than usual, but he had chalked it up to the downpour, slowing them both down with its intensity.

It wasn't the first time he wondered if they had gotten back into the swing of things a little too quickly after the accident. Dean had almost died, and a week later they were back on the road, hunting evil, the only way they knew how to get back to normal.

"You hungry?"

"Huh?" Sam looked up to see Ellen, surprised to see her.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you." She looked around the room. "Was Dean in here? I thought I heard him."

"He was. I think he's in the other room. He was looking for the laptop." He was going to ask Ellen if she thought Dean was all right when the house shook with thunder, snapping him out of it. This woman may have been close to their father, but Dean would never forgive him if he dragged her into their personal lives.

Ellen wanted to ask Sam about Dean, see if he had noticed anything unusual in the last couple of days, but thought better of it. They had just lost their dad, in a game of cat and mouse they had been playing most of their lives. She knew getting one to confide against the other was out of the question. And she didn't want to be the cause of any more anxiety between them.

"So, you hungry?" she asked again.

"No, thanks."

"Well, let me know when you are."

"Hey, Ellen?" Sam paused. "I'm sorry we barged in here this morning."

"Don't mention it, Sam. Like I told your brother, you guys are always welcome here. I just wish you weren't stuck. The last time we had a storm like this the whole town was out of commission for three days."

"We'll try and stay out of your hair, then," Sam said, thinking a forced stay might be good for Dean.

"You do that," Ellen said, smiling slightly as she walked out of the room. "And let me know when you're hungry."

Sam tried to relax, to read, to watch tv, anything to get his mind off his brother, and away from Ash's revelation that the demon was in Palo Alto, but he couldn't. He felt guilty for attacking his brother earlier, because it was easier to do than face his fears, but he was damned if he was going to be bullied into doing something he wasn't ready to do. Especially if he could be putting Dean in danger.

But it was no use, the more he tried to concentrate on something other than Dean, the more he thought about him. He had been so worried about his brother. About the pent up rage he had managed to unleash only for an instant, on his car no less, his most prized possession. And only when he thought no one was watching.

Fearing his emotional barometer topping out, he did what he always did in those situations, he went looking for Dean. Looking for the heart to heart talk that would make him feel better and make his brother cringe.

Dean was sitting at the bar, the laptop screen the only thing illuminating his face. Deep in thought, absently rubbing the back of his head, he didn't see Sam until he was practically beside him.

"Jesus, Sam. You trying to give me a heart attack?" Dean turned the laptop away from his brother.

"Sorry. Can we talk?"

Sam pulled up a stool and sat.

"Gee, thanks for asking."

"We need to talk."

"No we don't."

"Look, I said some things earlier."

"Already forgotten, Sammy. Really. Now please go away."

Dean had been researching E. coli, and had just found what he was looking for.

"I can't forget it."

Symptoms start about seven days after you're infected with the germ. Okay, where was I seven days ago? The first sign is severe abdominal cramps that start suddenly.

"Really, Sam, you should. It's not that big a deal." Dean's eyes didn't leave the monitor.

After a few hours, watery diarrhea starts. Great. The diarrhea then turns into bloody diarrhea. Even better.

"Dean, can you look at me for a minute?" Sam was getting impatient. What was on that screen that was so important?

You may have a fever or no fever. Nausea or vomiting. The virus could lead to kidney failure. Joy.

"What are you reading?" Sam stood up to check out the screen when Dean closed the lid.

"Damn it, Sam, what part of leave me alone don't you understand?" The words echoed in the room for the longest time, Dean feeling worse with every passing second.

Sam's heart was in his throat, and he was feeling incredibly sorry for himself when he noticed a sickly sheen on Dean's face. On closer inspection he could see very little life in his brother's eyes, only a glassy, distant look that scared the hell out of him.

"Are you okay?" It was so lame, so predictable a question, he could've kicked himself. And almost did when he got the standard response.

"I'm fine."

"I don't think so. Is it your arm? Does it hurt?" Sam's eyes were scanning, looking for a sign, anything he could point his finger to that would explain the sight before him.

"No."

"Is it your head? 'Cause you've been popping pills like crazy for a couple of days."

"Sam, chill. Nothing's wrong with me." Dean almost laughed in spite of himself. How long could he keep this up? For all he knew he was dying, and he didn't think E. coli was the culprit. But the longer he denied everything, the harder it became to tell his brother the truth. The harder it became to admit he was broken, in dire need of someone to take care of him, for so many reasons he had lost count.

Sam couldn't take it anymore. "You're lying. I'm sick of you lying to me. Pretending everything's okay when it's not."

"Suit yourself. Believe me, don't believe me. I don't care." Dean stood up and reached for the laptop, turning his back to Sam.

Despite the fact that he knew better, Sam reached out and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Dean."

"Damn it, Sam, leave me alone." Instinctively, and in spite of his own better judgment, Dean turned suddenly, releasing Sam's grip in the process.

The movement sent shock waves through his battered body, and another crippling pain shot through him.

Dean reached out to the bar to keep from falling, his other hand resting squarely on his midsection as he doubled over in agony. The guttural gasp that followed scaring the hell out of both of them.

"Dean!" Sam was frozen in place, the look of anguish on his brother's face not what he was expecting. Anger maybe, but not this.

"Sam." It was all Dean could manage, his body betraying his desire to keep hiding. To stay conscious.

Sam reached out and caught Dean before he hit the floor.

"Ellen, Ash!"

Sam's voice caught as he held on to his brother, his dead weight awkwardly on top of him.

Ellen was the first to arrive.

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure." Sam was struggling to get Dean in a better position. "He doubled over, like he was in pain, and then passed out."

Ellen placed a hand on Dean's cheek. "He's burning up. Let's get him into my room. Ash!"

"What the hell?" Ash wasn't sure he could handle any more excitement. "What happened?"

"We don't know. Grab his feet," Ellen said, all business. "Help Sam get him to my room. Watch his arm. And be careful, he may have some other injury we don't know about."

Ellen hurried ahead of them, throwing the covers off her bed in time for Dean's arrival.

Dean let out a slight groan and Sam kneeled beside him, one hand on his brother's forehead, the other on his chest, almost willing a strong heartbeat. It was the closest he'd been to his brother in weeks, both physically and emotionally. Why did Dean have to be unconscious for him to feel connected? To feel needed?

"Hey," he whispered. "Dean, can you hear me?" Nothing. No sound. No movement. Not even a flicker underneath the eyelids.

Sam looked up to see Ellen rummaging through a drawer in her dresser, barking out orders.

"Ash, go get me a pot filled with water. Room temperature. And bring me every wash cloth you can find."

Ellen found what she was looking for, a digital thermometer, and proceeded to put it in Dean's ear, wincing when she cupped her hand against his cheek. "He is so hot," she said, almost to herself. "Sam, take his pants off."

"What?" Sam was still kneeling by his brother's side, frozen in place. "Why?"

"We need to cool him down. Lower the fever. And we need to look for an injury, a wound that's infected maybe."

A Wound? Sam's mind was on their last hunt, at the carnival. Was there an injury in the fun house that he'd missed? Did one of those knives not miss their target? He remembered Dean joking about the guy's aim.

"Could it be the cut on his arm? The one from the gutter?" Sam was fairly certain there were no injuries at the fun house.

"It's too soon for that one to be infected. And it wasn't that bad to begin with. Besides, I think he already had a fever this morning, when you got here."

The thermometer beeped and Ellen looked at it.

"Now, Sam. Take his pants off now!" There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice. "Ash, hurry up!"

Sam moved as quickly as he could, fear and uncertainty gripping him. Dean would kill him if he knew he was undressing him in front of Ellen. In front of anyone.

Ellen reset the thermometer and put it back in Dean's ear. Sam looked at her, afraid to ask, as he began to slide his brother's pants off. The thermometer beeped again, a low distant sound, and Sam practically jumped out of his skin. Ellen looked at it again and shook her head.

"Ash!"

"What is it?" Sam was certain he didn't want to know.

"104.3"

Sam blinked several times, the rest of his body unable to move. How did this happen? How could Dean be so sick so suddenly? And then, like a tidal wave, it came rushing. All the aspirin his brother had consumed in the last two days, letting him drive when he asked, the food he could barely eat, the coffee that was left untouched, the stifled movements on the roof, and his inability to get back on the ladder on his own. The fact that he kept trying to be alone, away from anyone that might notice something was not right. Sam was suddenly so mad he could barely see straight, and yanked the rest of Dean's pants off in one swift motion.

"Hey, easy there, cowboy." Ellen said, placing a hand on his arm. "No need to add insult to injury." She already had Dean's t-shirt off and was looking closely for any tell-tale injuries. There was nothing there, just a lot of scars, including one that looked like the remnants of a nasty burn, but nothing that hadn't healed. At least on the outside.

Sam felt his face flush. Even unconscious Dean could piss him off like no other.

And then, as quickly as the anger came, it disappeared, instantly replaced by suffocating guilt. How could he miss all the signs? How could he deny his intuition? The gut feeling he'd had all day that something was wrong. What good were psychic powers if they couldn't make a difference when it really mattered? When it mattered to him. Even if Dean was a master manipulator, was he so out of touch, so wrapped up in his own drama, that he could be so clueless?

Ellen wanted to put her arms around Sam, give him a hug and a pep talk that conveyed don't worry, your brother's going to be okay. But she couldn't. There was no time. And no certainty. She turned to yell for Ash again just as he came through the door, arms filled.

"I'll take these," she said, grabbing the pot and the wash cloths. "Now go into the garage and bring me the two fans that are in there."

Ash nodded and disappeared.

"Here," she said to Sam, handing him a wet wash cloth. "Rub this all over his chest, his arms, his face. As soon as it's not cold anymore soak it in the water again." Ellen took another wash cloth and soaked it, wringing it out quickly before doing the same thing to Dean's legs.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, on autopilot, the circular motions he was making on Dean's chest slow and deliberate, gentle even, and yet, his mind was racing.

What now, Dean? I can't do this again. Not now. Not ever. Please wake up and tell me what's wrong. Please. As if on cue, Dean shuddered, and a small spasm travelled from his chest down to his feet.

"Dean?"

Dean shook again, this time with more force. Sam looked at Ellen, who had stopped her own efforts to fight the fever. And then it happened again. And again. Until the shaking became a continuous, uncontrollable throttle that wracked Dean's entire body from limb to limb.

"He's having a fever seizure," Ellen said, fighting to keep the edge out of her voice.

"What? What do we do?" Sam was frantic, eyes going from his brother to Ellen and back again.

"Just hold him. Let it run its course."

Sam looked at his brother, his face flushed with fever, eyes closed, mouth half open, as if he had something to say.

"It's okay," he whispered, mostly to soothe himself. "It's okay." Sam held Dean's shoulders gently, afraid of hurting him, for what seemed like a lifetime. Long enough for him to think of his mom, and Jess, and his dad, everyone he had lost that had meant anything to him. Long enough for him to miss Dean, the only person left that mattered.

Then it was over. Dean stopped shaking and it spilled onto Sam, his hands trembling at the mere thought of what he had just witnessed.

"Hey," Ellen had a hand on Sam's back. "It's okay. It happens. These seizures don't usually cause any damage. They're just a warning. We have to bring his fever down."

Sam couldn't take his eyes off his brother, and spoke without redirecting his gaze. "We have to get him to a hospital."

"We can't."

It was then that Sam turned to look at Ellen, and she could see that he was struggling to keep it together. And still, she had nothing to say to him. At least not what he wanted to hear, that his brother was going to wake up good as new. She only had a sobering assessment of their situation.

"We have no car, no phones. No way of getting help. We're in the middle of nowhere. The nearest hospital is 20 miles away."

"Cell phones?"

"You can try yours, but they're the first to go during a storm. Mine hasn't worked since yesterday."

"The Internet. You have wireless, we can contact the hospital that way. They can send an ambulance, a helicopter."

"I'll have Ash get on it. You keep rubbing your brother's chest and face with that wash cloth. I'll be right back."

Sam was glad to be left alone with Dean, and fought the urge to pull the covers up around his brother's body. He felt as exposed as his brother, his heart barely hanging to his sleeve. He soaked the wash cloth in the water one more time and began rubbing Dean's chest and arms, almost by rote, his thoughts difficult to keep in one place, his mind finding it hard to concentrate. He was spiraling into pity territory when Ellen and Ash walked in with two large fans.

"Ash is going to try and contact someone at the local hospital online," Ellen was saying as she placed one of the fans near Dean.

"No problem, man." In spite of his words, Ash was looking skeptical. "I'll find as many contacts as I can on their website and start sending emails. Hopefully someone will write back."

"It's better than nothing," Sam said, barely above a whisper.

"Right. I'm on it." Ash set down the fan he was holding and headed out of the room, aware of Sam's eyes on his back.

Sam let his gaze fall back on his brother, and wondered how long it had been since he'd looked his brother in the eye. Since they'd had a real conversation that didn't include acrimony and condescension. What if he could never look him in the eye again? What if he never woke up? What if…" An involuntary shudder cursed through him and he soaked another wash cloth, this time bringing it to Dean's face and forehead.

If he could read the lines on a person's face, it would take him years to read the epic etched on his brother's features. So much raw emotion was always on the surface, deftly hidden by a sarcastic remark here, a joke there. And yet Sam knew it was the way his brother wanted it. He had always felt that it was to protect him, the little brother, from more pain, more anguish. But lately, especially after Dean had taken the crowbar to his beloved car, Sam had wondered if Dean wasn't protecting himself too.

Dean groaned ever so slightly, his lips moving slowly, his head trying to get away from the cold.

"Hey, Dean, can you hear me?"

Sam could see him fighting to open his eyes, and fought the urge to pull them open himself.

"Sam," Ellen was whispering behind him. "If you can get anything out of him, let it be where it hurts. We need to know what we're dealing with." Ellen knew the brothers needed each other right then and purposely stayed in the background.

Sam nodded as he watched his brother closely. He didn't want to miss whatever crumb Dean managed to send his way.

Dean shuddered, both fans were blowing cold air directly on him, and Sam could see goose bumps on his arms.

"Ellen, do we need these fans? I think he's cold."

"I know, but that's a good sign. We have to bring the fever down."

Two seconds later it was a moot point, as the power lines directly in front of the bar were struck by lightning, severing all hope of maintaining electricity throughout the storm.

"Damn."

"Was that what I think it was?" Sam asked, watching the blades of the fans come to a slow stop.

Ellen soaked her wash cloth again and continued rubbing Dean's legs before she spoke. She was trying so hard to maintain her composure. For her sake as well as Sam's.

"We have a generator. I'll make sure it's running before it gets dark."

"Maybe we'll be out of here by then." Sam felt foolish before the words had left his mouth. How could he be so naïve? What had gone right for them in the last few weeks? Why should this predicament be any different? If anything, he was surprised Ellen had a generator, since being stranded without electricity would be more par for the course they seemed to be traveling on.

The random thoughts were thankfully cut short by Dean, groaning louder this time, his head moving from side to side as if desperate to get away from something.

Sam instinctively pulled the wash cloth from his face, hoping it was the cold his brother was trying to get away from, and not some demon haunting his dreams.

"Hey, it's okay." Sam brought a tentative hand up to his brother's forehead, afraid that even in this condition Dean would push him away. Rebuke his efforts to be close, to comfort. He was almost embarrassed by the surge of emotion cursing through him, and wasn't sure if it was Dean who needed him or the other way around.

Dean opened his eyes, closing them again almost instantly.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

His eyes opened once more, lingering on Sam's face for mere seconds. And then they closed again.

Dean's lips parted, and then he swallowed, a hard fought attempt to get something out, to be heard.

"S…a…m…" It was said in several syllables, in a breathy, almost asthmatic wheeze that only increased Sam's panic.

"I'm right here." Sam was grateful for the voice he was certain wouldn't be there.

"Hurts." A little more coherent, eyes fully opened. And Sam wished they were closed again, there was so much pain in them.

"Where Dean? Where does it hurt?"

"Sto…mach." He searched Sam's face for relief. For comfort. "Make it…go…away." No joke, no inappropriate humor to mask the seriousness, and Sam stiffened with fear.

"Okay, okay. We will. Ash is contacting the local hospital right now."

Sam turned to Ellen, eyes pleading for help. Ellen didn't skip a beat. She knew Sam wanted to do this on his own, for the sake of his stubborn brother, but she also knew he was treading on thin ice himself, about to break if he suffered any more loss.

"Dean," she said softly, moving closer, across the bed from Sam. "When did you start to feel sick? When did the pain start?"

"Today…yesterday…headache."

"You've had a headache since yesterday?"

"He's been popping aspirin for a few days," Sam volunteered.

"Anything else?" Ellen remembered the dizzy spell he'd had earlier, when she was cleaning the cut on his arm. "Any nausea?"

"Threw up." Dean swallowed hard, closing his eyes against the pain.

"When?"

"After breakfast."

Sam caught himself being angry again. Why was it so hard for Dean to admit he was sick or hurt?

Ellen placed a hand on Dean's neck, thankful for the strong pulse under her fingertips.

"Dean, I am going to feel your stomach, gently, and you tell me where it hurts, okay?"

Dean gave her a slight nod, which he found easier to do than speaking.

Ellen rubbed her hands vigorously, warming them before placing them on Dean's midsection. She pressed gently on his left side, top, bottom. Nothing. No response. Right side, top, bot…she had barely pressed on the bottom right hand side of his abdomen when Dean let out a gasp so loud and so frightening that she pulled away, hands shaking.

Dean's face went from flushed to stark white, his breath shallow as large beads of sweat dripped down his neck. He curled on his side in a tight ball, shielding himself as best he could from the onslaught of agony that was pounding through him.

"Dean!" Sam forgot his fear of rejection and leaned over his brother's body, protectively wrapping his large arms behind him in an awkward attempt to stop the shaking. To ease the torment as best he could. For a few seconds worth a lifetime he steadied his brother's frenzied movements, whispering in his ear, holding the back of his head, soothing as best he could. When he managed to look up, to glance at Ellen, the fear was undeniable.

"What is it? What's wrong with him?"

"It's his appendix. It has to come out."

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Yikes – there it is. Very nerve wracking this whole posting of chapters…PLEASE let me know what you think. All comments are very much appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

Again, thank you for the amazing reviews – you make me so happy!

a/n – Merry Christmas to everyone that celebrates – Happy Week to everyone else:-)

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter Five**

"His appendix? How do you know?"

Sam felt the room swaying, and did the only thing that came naturally – he held on to Dean for dear life, effectively shielding them both from Ellen's diagnosis.

"I've had mine out, my husband had his out, my sister…" Ellen stopped mid sentence when she realized Sam wasn't listening. He was whispering in Dean's ear, a long litany that included instructions – calm down, take a deep breath; reassurance – you're going to be okay, I'm right here; and hope – we're going to get you to a hospital.

After a few minutes, when Dean had stopped shaking, when the desperate sucking for air had slowed to a mild wheeze, and Sam thought he was out again, he looked up, his eyes scanning Ellen's for answers.

"Are you sure?" he whispered.

Ellen nodded. "I'd bet my life on it."

Sam took a deep breath and kept his voice low. "What do we do?"

"We have to get him to a hospital."

Sam stared at her in disbelief. This from the woman who only minutes ago had said they had no way of getting to a hospital.

Ellen knew what he was thinking, and fought the urge to scream, to run from the room and into the pouring rain. To be struck by lightning right now seemed incredibly appealing. Instead, she held her ground and looked Sam in the eye.

"In the meantime, we need to try and get his fever down, keep him comfortable. But we have to figure out a way to get him to a hospital before his appendix ruptures. If," she paused, unable to say what she was thinking.

"If what?"

"If it hasn't already."

"That's not good, right?" Sam tried to remember everything he'd heard about appendicitis.

"A ruptured appendix can lead to peritonitis, which basically means bacteria spills into the intestines, and can be life threatening."

Sam rubbed his eyes, as if doing so would change their predicament. "How do we know if it's ruptured?" he asked.

"Usually not until you open him up. But…"

"But what?"

"The high fever." Ellen wasn't sure how much Sam could handle, and searched his face for a clue.

"What about it?" Sam didn't want to be coddled. His brother did enough of that to last him a lifetime.

Ellen knew he deserved the truth. "There's usually a fever associated with appendicitis, but Dean's is so high, and the pain is so great, I think there's a good chance it's already ruptured."

"Thank…you…Dr…Quinn." Dean's attempt to join the conversation caught Sam and Ellen by surprise, and they both felt guilty when they realized he had been listening.

"Dean, hey." Sam moved away from his brother, removing his hands from his shoulder, the back of his head, as he had unconsciously tried to protect him.

"And you thought…the demon…was going to…do me in."

"What are you talking about?" Sam tried to bring a levity to his voice that didn't exist. "Garden variety appendicitis. Is that the best you could do?"

"Under the circumstances…you should be…impressed." Dean's body shuddered involuntarily and he shut his eyes tightly, his head lowered to his chest as he fought a wave of pain and nausea.

Sam placed a hand on Dean's back, grateful when his brother didn't push him away, terrified that Dean didn't have the strength or the will to do so.

After a moment, Dean opened his eyes and looked up at Sam, glassy eyes pleading for relief.

"Sam."

"I know. I'm working on it."

Dean was thankful Sam could read his thoughts, because speaking had suddenly become too painful. He was trying to focus on the conversation, but could only process bits and pieces. But he didn't have to hear the words, didn't have to process anything other than the look on Sam's face to know it wasn't good.

If he could speak, if he could say more than two words without gasping, he would tell his brother to relax, that everything was going to be okay. But he couldn't. And the thought that he couldn't comfort Sam, that he was the cause of the panic in his brother's eyes, was more painful than anything.

Ash was back, his laid back demeanor being sorely tested, and Dean tried to concentrate.

"I've sent 11 emails to different people I found on the hospital's website," he was saying, his eyes scanning Dean for any sign of improvement. "How is he?"

"We think it's appendicitis," Ellen said matter of factly.

Ash let out a short whistle. "Damn!"

"Ash, we have to get him to a hospital. Any ideas?" Sam was rubbing his brother's back in an absent minded rhythm that was soothing to them both.

Ash shook his head. "We've got a couple of bikes, don't think Dean's gonna be wanting to ride one of those any time soon. And I just heard on the portable radio that the bridge into that town has washed out. The only way there would be via helicopter, which I asked for with every email I sent."

"My…lucky…day." Even groggy with delirium it was hard for Dean to avoid being sarcastic, and he was trying so hard to stay in the conversation.

"It's the Winchester doctrine," Sam offered, trying to lighten the mood along with his brother. "Why do something the easy way when you can do it the hard way."

Dean didn't respond and Sam continued rubbing his back, until he could feel his shoulders relax, and could see that Dean had fallen into a light, fitful sleep.

Sam looked at Ash and Ellen, both of them staring at him, at a loss, waiting for him to say something.

"What does that mean, the bridge has washed out? Is it gone?" he asked.

"It means it's flooded, the whole area is."

"So as soon as the flooding goes down it's usable again?"

"Sometimes," Ellen began. "We have four major streams in the area, and a couple of other waterways. How quickly the bridge is back in action depends on how many streams have flooded, how long the rain continues."

"How long is it usually out for? Do we have a forecast?" Sam was trying to make sense of everything before him.

"According to the National Weather Service," Ash said, "it's not supposed to let up for another 36 – 48 hours."

The figure was startling, and Sam knew immediately that Dean didn't have 36 hours.

"Then we have to take care of him here." There was no hesitation in his voice. No uncertainty. Nothing that betrayed how he really felt. Not the frantic pace of his heart. Not the breath that was caught in his throat. Not even the hand he placed on his brother's shoulder to keep from shaking.

"He needs surgery, Sam. We can only take care of him to an extent." It upset Ellen to be so blunt, but she didn't want to diminish the seriousness of the situation just to make Sam feel better.

"I get that," Sam said, a little frustrated. "And I also understand that getting to the nearest hospital is impossible right now. But there is a small town, I've seen it on the way here, about five miles south. Is there a doctor's office there? A clinic?"

"There is a clinic that is staffed one day a week, by a doctor and a nurse that work for the county. They're not due back for another five days."

"Do either of them live in the area?"

"I have no idea where they live."

"What kinds of things, procedures, do they do in this clinic?" Sam's mind was on overdrive, and he was glad for the distraction.

"They don't do procedures," Ellen said, worried Sam was spinning his wheels. "They see people for none threatening things like ingrown toe nails, colds, aches and pains."

"Once a month they have another doctor come in that does abortions," Ash volunteered.

This revelation surprised Ellen. "I didn't know that."

A thought crossed Sam's mind, and he looked at his brother, who was thankfully still asleep. Even unconscious his expression was pained, his skin burning to the touch. Sam pulled the covers up around his body, certain he should be pouring ice cubes on him instead.

"Abortions are done under an anesthetic, right?"

"Most likely."

Ash nodded.

"So they probably have whatever you would need to perform a surgery." Sam was thinking out loud, his mind going from one implausible thought to another at a mile a minute.

"Sam." Ellen was beginning to see a pattern, certain it was only going to bring false hope.

"No, wait." Sam glanced at Dean again, gaining strength every time he looked at him. "Is there anyone in town that is a doctor? A nurse?"

Ellen shook her head.

"A veterinarian?"

Ellen shook her head again, eyes wide this time.

Ash could see where he was headed, even if Ellen was pretending she couldn't, and he had to admit he liked Sam's determination.

"What about that Bates guy?" Ash asked, turning to face Ellen. "Isn't he a doctor?"

"Fifty years ago."

"What? Where? Where does he live?" Sam's voice had a sudden urgency to it.

"Sam." What could she say to him? He was desperate. Desperate for a way to help his brother.

"He lives near Main Street, about four, five miles from here." Ash had followed Sam's ramblings to their logical conclusion and he was solidly on board.

"We have to go get him." There was no doubt in Sam's mind that he had found a solution.

And there was no doubt in Ellen's that he was insane.

"Sam, Bates is about 95 years old, walks with a cane, can barely see. The last time I saw him he thought I was Jo."

Sam's rebuttal stayed on the tip of his tongue as he watched Dean begin to shake uncontrollably, another fever convulsion seizing his body. Within seconds he was holding his brother's upper body, whispering words of calm he knew went unheard.

The shaking lasted longer than the last time, and by the time it was over, both brothers were flushed, Sam dripping with sweat tinged with fear, Dean with a dangerously high fever.

Ellen placed the thermometer in Dean's ear, avoiding Sam's glare until it beeped.

"104.5. It's gone up." She turned to Sam, unreadable. She had nothing to say that would make him feel better.

It didn't matter. Sam was beyond needing comfort and compassion. He needed to take action, and he wasn't about to let Ellen stand in his way.

"If we don't do something," he began, "he is going to die."

Ellen had no response. Denying his assessment was impossible. He was right.

"I know you think I'm crazy," Sam continued. "Believing that a clinic that performs abortions and a 95 year-old doctor can help him, but unless you have a better idea, you're going to have to go with me here."

"And what do you suppose you're going to get from this clinic? And this doctor? Provided we can even get to them."

"The clinic should have anesthesia, instruments, whatever it is you need to perform a surgery."

"An abortion is different than an appendectomy, Sam. I'm sure the instruments used are not the same."

"I'm talking anesthetic, antibiotics, whatever you use to control bleeding. You can cut into someone with just about anything." Sam shuddered involuntarily at his last statement, but managed to ignore the incredulous look on Ellen's face and continued. "The doctor can perform the surgery."

"Did I mention he's 95? And that he shakes?"

"Then he can tell us what to do."

"You're going to do it?" Ellen couldn't keep the disbelief from her voice.

"If I have to." Sam didn't waver. Nothing was going to get in the way of him helping his brother.

"Here?"

Sam nodded, his attention diverted to Dean, who was groaning softly beside him. His face was flushed beyond a healthy pink, and Sam soaked another wash cloth, gently rubbing his brother's face and neck with it.

Dean was struggling to speak, his mouth and his eyes both fighting to take action. "Sam." It was spoken through a gasp, barely audible to anyone but his brother.

"Shh. I'm right here, Dean."

"This…sucks."

Sam would have laughed if he hadn't seen his brother's expression – pain masked by more pain. He was grateful Dean couldn't keep his eyes open.

Sam soaked the wash cloth again and began rubbing it on Dean's chest, holding steady when Dean shook from the cold.

"Sorry," he whispered. "Have to bring your fever down."

"Don't…move…bed."

"Oh, sorry." Sam stood up slowly, careful not to jar his brother, while Ellen grabbed her desk chair and slid it to him.

"Is that better?"

But Dean didn't hear him. He was out again, and Sam was thankful.

"Unless you have a better idea," he said to Ellen, his voice low, "you need to tell me where to find that doctor, because I'm not wasting another minute."

"Sam." What could she say? He was right. Dean was running out of time, if he hadn't already. "This is so farfetched. Even if you get Bates to agree to come here, how do you know the clinic is going to have what you need? And even if they have the anesthetic, the instruments, surgeries require monitoring of vital signs, equipment I guarantee you that clinic doesn't have."

Sam didn't budge. Refused to believe he couldn't help his brother. Was fairly certain that if it was the other way around Dean would have picked up the doctor by now.

"I need to know where he lives. How to get there."

"I'll go."

Sam and Ellen turned to Ash.

"What?" Ellen knew she was outnumbered.

Ash faced Sam. "I know my way. I'll be a lot quicker. And I know old Bates, he'll talk to me before he talks to a stranger."

"Are you sure?"

Ash nodded. "You need to stay here." Ash paused, knowing he didn't need to continue with the train of thought. In spite of the argument he'd witnessed earlier, he'd seen enough in this room to understand the bond the brothers shared.

"Ash, what are you going to do? How are you going to get there?"

"My bike."

"Your 20 year-old 10 speed bike." It was a statement. She wasn't expecting an answer.

"What are you going to say to Bates?" Ellen couldn't believe it had come to this.

Ash shrugged. "The truth," he said. "He's got a car. I'm hoping he'll come with me to the clinic for supplies, and then back here."

"Essentially you're hoping he agrees to rob the clinic with you?"

Ash offered a trademark smirk and Sam couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, that's about right."

Ellen sighed, and found herself questioning her resistance. What was she so afraid of? She was certain Dean didn't have a lot of time, that drastic measures were called for, and she didn't have a better idea. Was it the hope that scared her? When her husband was alive, she existed on hope. Every time he went on a hunt it was hope that kept her sane until he returned. When he died, so did the hope she had clung to so fiercely. The thought of believing again terrified her.

She looked at Dean, his body flushed, his brother trying desperately to make him feel better, and her heart jumped to her throat. How could she deny them hope?

Ellen turned to Ash. "Fine, but be careful. And tell Bates he's got a lifetime supply of my chili waiting for him."

"Right on!" Ash disappeared without another word.

Ellen turned to face the brothers, placing the thermometer in Dean's ear again. Sam wanted to stop her. He didn't want to know.

"104.7," she said, worry seeping into her voice.

Without thinking Sam began rubbing Dean's upper body with a wet wash cloth, afraid that if he stopped, if he allowed the number to fully register, he might fall apart. He caught himself once again wondering how Dean could have hidden something so serious, and how shut down he must be to have missed it. And the guilt consumed him, made it impossible for him to see straight.

Ellen was aware of the tenuous hold Sam had on his emotions and treaded lightly.

"Sam, if you need a break," she began. "If you want some fresh air, I'll be happy to stay with him, call you if he wakes up."

Sam looked at her, his mind far away, beating him up. "Huh?"

"If you need a break."

"No, thanks. I'm fine. But if you need, want to go, I'll call you if I need anything."

Just then the fans came on, blowing cold air into the stifling room.

The generator, Ellen thought, Ash must have turned it on before he left.

The sudden cold felt like ice on Dean's body, and he tried to move away from the fans, groaning loudly with the effort.

Sam waited him out, hoping he would stay asleep. The pain he saw every time they made eye contact was unbearable, and it was easier for him to think straight when his brother was asleep.

No such luck. Dean's eyes fluttered open.

"Hey." Sam soaked the wash cloth again and brought it to Dean's chest."

"Cold."

"I know, but we have to bring the fever down."

"Sammy?"

"I'm right here."

"Sammy's sick? Dad…what's the…matter with Sammy?"

Sam began biting his nails, and exchanged a worried glance with Ellen.

"It's the fever," she volunteered. "He's disoriented. Just go along with him. Try not to aggravate him."

"Nothing's the matter with me, Dean. I'm fine. You're the one that needs to rest."

"No…I can't…Dad said…take care of…Sammy."

Sam's chest tightened. How often had he heard his father give Dean those instructions? Even in his own personal hell, Dean couldn't let go of the responsibility, of the burden, of his little brother.

"I'm fine, Dean. You have to take care of yourself right now."

"Dad?"

"Shh."

"Dad, why'd…you…do…it?"

"Do what?"

"Die…why…Dad?"

Sam stiffened, could see Ellen stop what she was doing beside him, and held his breath.

He had been trying for several weeks to get Dean to talk about their dad, but at this moment he didn't think he could handle it. Didn't think it was fair to listen.

Feeling like she was eavesdropping, Ellen excused herself from the room, claiming to need a cup of coffee. "Call me if you need me," she said before leaving Sam to deal with the family drama in private.

"Dean?"

Dean turned his head to look at Sam, and saw his father instead.

"Dad?"

"I'm right here." Sam wasn't sure if pretending to be his father would help or hinder. And he wanted so desperately to do right by his brother.

"Not…fair."

"I know." Sam stroked Dean's hair, not because it was something his father would have done, the man had never been affectionate towards either of his sons, but it felt like something a father would do under the circumstances.

"Can't do it…alone."

"Can't do what?"

"Watch…out…for…Sammy." The conversation was leaving Dean breathless, and in more pain, but Sam was sucked into it, in spite of himself, and he needed to hear what Dean had to say.

"You don't have to take care of him, Dean. He can take care of himself."

"That's not what…you…said."

"What? When did I say that?"

"Scared…Dad."

"Don't be scared, Dean."

"You…said that…too…but…I am."

"When, Dean, when did I say that?"

Sam was fighting to keep the guilt at bay. It was obvious Dean was in distress. His breathing was shallow, his eyes darting all over the place, vacant, as he searched through his memories. And yet Sam couldn't help but listen. Couldn't help but continue the conversation. When had Dean told their father he was scared? What was he scared of?

"Dad?"

"I'm right here."

"Mornings."

"What about mornings?"

"Hard…to get…up…face…Sammy."

Sam was speechless, fraught with guilt. And still he sat. And listened.

"Can't take…care…of…me."

"Let Sam help, Dean." Sam's lungs were on fire.

"But you said…watch out for…Sammy."

"When Dean, when did I say that?"

"Right…before…'member…10:41 AM."

Sam had heard enough, could kick himself for letting it go as long as he did. He had wanted Dean to talk, to open up, to say anything about their father's death besides the mantra of self-protection he wore on his sleeve. But this outpouring of guilt and grief and fear was, while honest to the core, tainted and unfairly gathered.

"Shh, Dean. Close your eyes. Go to sleep."

"Then…you said…"

"Not now, Dean. You have to go to sleep now." Sam put a finger to Dean's lips, effectively getting him to stop talking. It was obvious there was more Dean wanted to say, and as much as Sam wanted to hear it, as tempted as he was to let his brother talk, he couldn't, in good conscience, let him.

"Miss…you."

Sam wiped his eyes with a quick brush of his hand, refusing to let himself cry, surprised at the rush of emotion he couldn't control.

"I know," he said, his voice catching. "I miss you too. Now go to sleep. It's an order."

Dean closed his eyes, trying to follow his father's command, until his insides caught fire and his eyes flew open again.

"It's okay, Dean, I'm right here."

"Sam?"

Sam was relieved to hear his name. He didn't want to pretend to be his father again. Even dead the man could elicit rage like no other.

"Hmm." There was so much Dean wanted to say, and yet this was all he could manage.

Sam resisted the urge to ask how he felt, and instead focused on the positive. "Ash went into town to get a doctor." He left out the fact that he was 95 and nearly blind.

"Hos…pi…tal?" Dean struggled to get the word out and Sam could tell the pain was getting worse.

"Bridge is still out," Ellen said as she entered the room.

"But this doctor will be able to take care of you right here," Sam added, praying he was telling the truth as the words left his mouth.

But the fever and the pain were making a coherent thought elusive at best, and it was impossible for Dean to make sense of the information.

Sam watched helplessly as another spasm wracked his brother's body, and took his hand in his own in an attempt to offer relief, however small. He was grateful when Dean didn't pull away, and instead squeezed it tightly in his own until he could breathe again.

Sam felt his breath release in time with his brother's. He felt the pain subside from his hand at the same time, and was thankful for the chance to share some of the burden.

"Sam." Dean's eyes were closed and he was speaking through clenched teeth.

"I'm right here."

"Shoot…me."

What could he say to that?

"I'm…serious."

And Sam had no doubt his brother meant it.

Sam had no idea what to say, so he reverted to logic. "Why don't you try and get some sleep?"

But the logic, and the semblance of a conversation altogether, was lost on Dean, who was in his own personal hell, clinging to a temporary sanity through his connection to Sam. Through the grip he had on his brother's hand, a conduit of sorts to a place that promised to make him feel better. After all, wasn't that what Sam did for him on a daily basis? Whether it was physical or psychological, whether he dared admit it or not, it was Sam, it was always Sam, who could bring him back from hell.

But as he struggled with the blinding pain, he began to doubt that even Sam could save him this time, so intense was the misery ripping through his body.

Sam sensed the shift, the doubt, through the grip his brother had on his hand. Dean's body was cursing with electricity, the intense pain shooting flares of panic and fear that Sam's body was picking up. But the more Sam tried to take it, to make it his own, the more resistance he got, and he was suddenly acutely aware of Dean's struggle to keep him safe, always, no matter the cost.

Sam fought to control the instant rage. How could his father let Dean take his place? What did he drill into his oldest son that even in a state of agony he managed to put Sam first?

Placing his free hand on his brother's forehead, Sam forced Dean to look at him, wincing when he saw the look of abject misery that danced in his eyes.

"Dean," he whispered. "Let me help."

Dean closed his eyes and Sam felt the electricity again as the grip tightened around his hand. The relief that came from the submission was short lived as Dean loosened his grip and forced his eyes open.

"Can't do it." His suffering was palpable, and Sam fought the urge to shake him. To make him see that it was okay to let some of it go.

"Yes, you can."

The argument was lost, a moot point in the annals of their relationship, when Dean tried to back away and felt a blow so jarring, so uncontrollably painful, that he screamed in anguish. A long, primal cry that left both brothers gasping for air. Dean couldn't get enough in his lungs to satisfy his battered body. Sam couldn't get enough to feed the panic that had settled in every fiber of his.

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Okay, hope you're still with me. You didn't really think I'd get him to a hospital did you? Would love to hear what you think so far. – all reviews are gratefully appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you again for all the wonderful reviews. You have made this so much fun!

a/n – I hope you enjoy what's to come. I promise Dean will feel better…eventually…in someone else's story…just kidding. 

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter Six**

Ellen stood still as she watched the brothers, not sure what to do, how to help. Automatically, she reached for Sam as he reached for Dean, and waited. For the shaking to stop. For the vibrations in the room to cease. For both brothers to get what they needed from each other in order to breathe again.

After an eternity Sam straightened his back against her touch and she could see him fighting for calm, struggling for a force he could pass on to his besieged brother. But there was no imminent relief for Dean, and therefore there was none for Sam.

Inundated with fear, Sam felt his resolve weaken, and he pleaded silently for his brother to pass out, to give up whatever misplaced idea he had of heroism and bravery, and succumb to a blackness that could protect him.

But as luck would have it, the protection didn't come in the form of oblivion, and Sam was left to provide it, as best he could, through his own pain and anguish. Finding his voice was the first step, but when he tried it he choked on his own breath, stopping briefly before trying again.

"Dean." It was weak, and he knew it had to be stronger if he was going to get through to his brother, through the suffering.

"Dean." Better. Stronger. "I'm right here." It would have to do. It was all he had.

Dean was still sucking in air, in gasps and spurts, his body frantically searching for a position that offered no resistance. But in spite of his weakened state, the grip on Sam's hand was a constant.

Sam put his free hand on Dean's chest, over his heart, willing it to slow down, to quell the rapid rate that was fueling Dean's panic. His panic.

"Shh," he whispered. "Slow down. That's it, easy." The self consciousness Sam had felt earlier was gone, replaced by an unrelenting desire to take care of his brother. To be there, physically, emotionally, any way he could, to prove to his brother that he wasn't alone.

Miraculously, Dean responded to his brother's touch, to the sound of his voice, and his breathing eased, his panting slowed.

Sam could see Dean was putting great effort into listening, could feel it in the hand Dean gripped like a vice. Could see it in his gaze as he made eye contact, tearing him apart with a look that spoke volumes, and yet betrayed nothing.

He wanted to tell Dean to stop trying to protect him. To release whatever he could of the pain and the fury, because he could handle it. But he realized it was Dean who couldn't handle it. The deep seeded sense of responsibility towards his younger brother would never allow it. Could never let it happen without causing him more pain, more misery. So Sam stopped trying instead, choosing to focus on the moment, on the immediacy of the situation, and prayed that it would be enough to ease some of his brother's struggle.

Long minutes passed before Dean was completely still, his breath steady, his heart strong but even. Sam kept his hand on his chest and watched as his brother turned to face him, the strain of the movement causing him to wince.

"Don't," Sam offered. "Lie still."

"Tired," Dean replied. "Of…lying…still."

"You wanna dance?"

"Not my…type."

Dean shivered and Ellen took that as her cue to take his temperature.

"What…are you…doing?"

"Just taking your temperature."

"In…my ear?"

"You're a better patient when you're asleep, Dean Winchester." The thermometer beeped and Ellen looked at it, offering both boys a smile. "104."

"You're so…easy to please." Dean was licking his lips, and Sam noticed for the first time they were dry and chapped.

"Hey, are you thirsty? You want some water?"

"Hmm." Dean nodded, finding it difficult to say anything else.

"Be right back," Ellen said, heading to the kitchen.

"Sam?"

"Right here."

"Where are…my clothes?"

"Now you notice. We took them off. Ellen wanted to look for an injury, before we knew what was wrong, and we needed to bring your fever down." Sam searched his brother's face to see if he was following the conversation, subconsciously readjusting the covers so they reached his waist.

"Ellen," Dean said with great effort. "Likely…story."

"Yeah, that's right," Sam mused, for an instant getting a glimpse of his brother, the wise cracking ladies' man he missed terribly. "'Cause nothing turns women on more than men in pain."

"Could…happen."

Dean was making a superhuman effort to stay in the room, to add levity where there was none, but it was taking its toll.

"Sam." It was breathless, his allotment for the time being depleted.

"Right here, Dean."

Dean bit back a stabbing pain and fought to stay in control. He really didn't have anything to say to Sam, or to anyone for that matter. Why couldn't he just pass out? He closed his eyes, willing himself to lose consciousness, to find a black pit that held no pain.

Sam watched his brother's face flush in agony, watched as he steeled himself against an imaginary wall. He watched as Dean arched his head back, a gasp on his parted lips just before he released Sam's hand, his body finally succumbing to blessed unconsciousness.

"Thank God." Ellen was standing right behind Sam, startling him. "I thought he would never pass out."

"Me too." Sam looked at his watch. "How long has Ash been gone?"

"A little over an hour."

"That's it?"

"Sam, you know, Ash might come back empty handed."

"Ellen, not now."

"We just need a plan B."

Sam couldn't think of plan B, he wasn't even sure that plan A was viable, and he didn't need Ellen to remind him.

They were at the mercy of her hospitality, and she had been more than accommodating, but Sam couldn't deal with someone else's doubts right now. It was hard enough controlling his own fears.

A month ago he thought he was losing his brother, and ended up losing his father instead. But as hard as that was, he was certain, without question, he could not survive without his brother. There would be no point.

Sam leaned forward and put his head in his hands, unable to say anything to Ellen that would come across remotely coherent. He felt her hand on his shoulder, but didn't budge, didn't look up to meet her gaze.

"Your father would be so proud of you," she said. "Of both of you."

Sam registered the comment, tucked it away for later, and closed his eyes. He was so tired. So scared. Maybe if sleep claimed him too he could wake up when it was all over. Or better yet, he would wake up to find out it was all a dream, a nightmare. Sam almost laughed at the thought. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to decipher his nightmares, to differentiate between the ones he had when he was sleeping and the ones he lived through while awake.

In spite of himself, and because his body gave him no choice, he let himself relax until he nodded off.

Minutes later he was awake, ushered back into reality by the hushed tones of Ellen soothing a shivering Dean. His brother had a wet towel draped across his chest, and Ellen was stroking his hair, whispering God knows what to him. Whatever it was, it wasn't working, and Dean, while unconscious, was becoming more anxious with every passing minute.

"What's wrong?" Sam was rubbing sleep out of his eyes, and looked at his watch. He had slept for over an hour.

"Fever's back up to 104.5."

Sam was in motion instantly, reaching for his brother's hand, taking over for Ellen as he stroked Dean's hair.

"Hey, Dean, it's me. It's Sam," he whispered. "It's okay. Go back to sleep."

Dean was visibly calmer within seconds, and Ellen shook her head. She had tried everything to relax him, and Sam did it instantly. She was certain Sam could have said anything to him and it wouldn't have mattered. It was the voice, the rhythm of his brother's voice that settled Dean, that offered him any peace.

Ellen heard footsteps and turned to see Ash, soaking wet from head to toe, leaving puddles of water wherever he went. He was followed by the very elderly Dr. Bates, and his equally elderly wife, Betty.

Sam looked up just in time to see Dr. Bates enter the room. Had he not been so worried, had the events of the entire day not been so surreal, he might have laughed. Instead, he realized rather quickly that his brother's life most likely depended on the ancient creature before him.

The good doctor was barely five feet tall, but Sam guessed that in his hey day he might have topped five six, so bad was the osteoporosis curving his spine. He walked with a cane that was held in place by a red ribbon tied into a bow, and his fingers jutted out in different directions, most likely the victims of arthritis. He was impossibly round, without being huge, and wore gray polyester pants that were held up with suspenders.

Despite the fact that his body shouted hundred year-old man, Dr. Bates sported a full head of silver hair, long and shaggy in every direction, including down his forehead and over his coke bottle glasses. Sam liked him instantly.

"Dr. Bates, Betty, thank you for coming." Ellen was leading the doctor into the room, towards Dean. "This is Sam, and this," she said, pointing to her bed, "is Dean – I trust Ash filled you in?"

"Good to see you, Ellen," he said, turning to face Sam, his right hand extended.

"Henry Bates," he said, his handshake surprisingly firm. "You must be the brother. It's a pleasure to meet you." His voice was deep, deeper than Sam would have expected from someone so old, and Sam liked the presence it carried. It was reassuring if nothing else.

"Likewise," Sam said, his own voice a mild combination of awe and fear.

"This is my wife Betty," Dr. Bates said, pointing with his right hand, his good hand, at his wife.

Betty was a miniature version of her husband, except that her silver hair was tied into a bun, her thick glasses covered half her face, and she was wearing lipstick. Like her husband, she sported what appeared to be a million wrinkles, but, unlike her husband, she moved with agility and grace.

Betty extended her hand to Sam, not to offer a handshake, but rather a gentle squeeze that offered support. Her tiny hand easily disappeared in Sam's, but the gesture was grand and Sam felt himself choking back his emotions when it occurred to him that maybe help had arrived. That in spite of the fact that she and her husband were a far cry from the cavalry, perhaps they had something they could offer his beleaguered brother.

Dr. Bates suddenly held up his left hand and the cane came with it, missing Sam's head by mere inches. Betty was at his side instantly, untying the red ribbon and releasing the cane from her husband's awkward grip.

While flexing his distorted fingers, the doctor turned to Sam and began asking him questions.

"Tell me about your brother," he said. "First, why is his arm bandaged?"

Sam was grateful the doctor was wasting no time. Grateful there was no need for small talk.

"He cut himself earlier today. Ellen took care of it."

"Stitches?"

"Five."

"What are his symptoms?"

"He's in a lot of pain," Sam offered, reliving the last few hours as best he could. "It's pretty constant now, but every once in a while he gets a really sharp jolt. When he does it tears him apart, his breathing becomes erratic, he curls onto his side, protecting himself."

"And what came before the pain?"

"I'm not exactly sure, because he hid it, but a headache, I know, that he's had for a few days."

"Dizziness, nausea," Ellen added. "And he said he threw up this morning, after breakfast."

"Which he barely touched," Sam offered.

"How long has he been unconscious?"

"About an hour and a half."

"But he's restless," Ellen volunteered. "Not so out that he isn't uncomfortable."

"And before that?"

"He's been in and out for the last three hours. But he's getting worse."

"How so?"

"The lucid moments are fewer and further apart. He's…he's been hallucinating." Sam stopped. He didn't want to share this information with a room full of people. The fever had allowed him to see into Dean's soul, and what was there had left him raw, his emotions about his father, his brother, his family, a tangible mess he couldn't expose right now. For his sake. For Dean's sake.

"Hallucinating?" But the doctor was curious.

"Fever dreams, mostly," Ellen ventured. And Sam glanced at her, his gratitude in the exhale.

"I take it the wet towel is for the fever?"

Ellen nodded. "It's been as high as 104.7, came down to 104 and was 104.5 a few minutes ago."

Dr. Bates turned to Sam again. "I'm going to need to examine him."

Sam realized the doctor was asking for his permission. The responsibility weighed heavily, and Sam blinked at the sheer force of it. All he could do was nod, afraid that anything that came out of his mouth would be laced with emotions he couldn't handle.

Sam looked at his brother and said a silent prayer. He prayed for an end to the suffering, to the torture on his brother's body, his psyche. He prayed for a life that offered a modicum of peace. For both of them.

"Ash, did you bring in my bag?"

"It's right here." Ash held out the doctor's black bag, and Sam swore it came straight out of a movie set from the forties.

"I'm going to change and check my email," Ash said. "See if anyone from the hospital has checked in." Ash handed Betty the bag and left the room.

Betty positioned herself on the bed across from her husband, on the other side of Dean, and opened the bag, pulling out a stethoscope first, and then something else Sam couldn't make out.

Dr. Bates sat on the chair Sam had been using and began the examination by placing a hand on Dean's forehead.

"Very hot, very hot," he said to no one in particular. He moved his hands down Dean's face and onto his neck, feeling around for swollen lymph nodes, a pulse.

"Good pulse, good sign," he said, again to no one in particular. Betty handed him a small pen light and he looked in Dean's eyes, moving the light from one end of each eye to the other, tracking the pupils as he went. Satisfied, he turned to Betty and nodded.

Betty took out a blood pressure cuff and wrapped it around Dean's arm, while her husband listened to his chest with the stethoscope. Dean's breathing increased with all the attention, and the doctor placed the palm of his hand on his forehead to steady him, to soothe him. When he was satisfied, when Dean was visibly calmer, Dr. Bates looked to his wife.

"90 over 50," she offered.

"Is that good, bad?" Sam couldn't keep from asking.

"It's low," the doctor answered. "But to be expected. His chest is clear, which is a good sign. No infection in there right now that could easily lead to pneumonia later."

Pneumonia? Where did that come from? Sam wasn't sure he wanted to stay in the room, and yet nothing could drag him away.

The doctor handed the stethoscope back to his wife and leaned forward, his head turned to the side, his right ear centimeters from Dean's stomach.

Was he listening to his appendix? Could he hear blood vessels bursting as the infection spread? Sam shook his head to clear the thought, and realized he was holding his breath.

The doctor leaned back and pressed a hand on Dean's left side, and then his right, and Sam looked away, anticipating the inevitable groan from his brother.

Sure enough, right on cue, Dean gasped, his eyes fluttering open for an instant when Dr. Bates pressed on his right side. Sam held his breath again, releasing it only when he was confident Dean was still out. He didn't know how much more of his brother's suffering he could take.

"Classic, rigid abdomen," Bates said, looking in Ellen's direction. "I believe you made the right diagnosis, Ellen. This boy's appendix has to come out. And judging from the pain you've described, and the fever, chances are it's already ruptured. This is one very sick young man."

Sam blinked several times before he could speak. It was information he already had, but up until that point it had been speculation, now it was real.

"You can help him, right?" Sam was working hard to keep the panic out of his voice.

"Sam." The doctor looked at him, his eyes huge and wide, distorted by the thick glasses he wore.

"That's why you're here, right? That's why you came? So you could help him?" Sam gave up trying to hide the panic. It was oozing out of every pore.

"I haven't performed a surgery in over 30 years."

"But you have, right? Did you go to the clinic, did you find what you needed for the surgery?"

"We did." Ash had just returned and was facing Dr. Bates, eyebrows raised. He spoke to Sam, but looked at the doctor. "Dr. Bates took everything he needed to perform a surgery."

"Ash, did you get any response to the emails?" Ellen interrupted.

Ash shook his head. "Nothing."

Sam was still staring at the doctor. "So what's the problem? What's happened in the last 15 minutes to make you change your mind?" Sam was on the edge, unable to see gray, only the black and white reality of his brother's predicament.

Dr. Bates hesitated before continuing. "His condition is so much worse than I anticipated."

The reasoning made no sense to Sam, and he tried hard to keep his temper in check.

"Wouldn't that make you want to operate even more? My brother is going to die if we don't do something now. You said it yourself, he's very sick."

Sam reached for the dresser, something solid he could lean into besides relying on his legs to keep him standing. He was sure the room was spinning, could see the light playing tricks on him, dancing in circles out of the corners of his eyes.

"That's it," Dr. Bates admitted. "A straight appendectomy I can do, well not me exactly, but I figured I could guide one of you to do it. But this, this is more intricate. If indeed the appendix has ruptured, and there's every indication that it has, there could be complications, we could lose him during the surgery."

"We're going to lose him if we don't do something." It was Ellen this time, and Sam was so grateful he could have kissed her.

"You don't understand." Dr. Bates was scratching his head, trying to be as gentle as possible as he laid out the facts. "To begin with, the supplies at the clinic were limited, and in this environment, even a quick appendectomy, one with no complications, is risky. If anything goes wrong, if we have to keep him open longer than we expect, the chance of further infection is great. He may need a transfusion, or a…"

"Do…it." The demand, loud and clear, was lost on no one, and every person in the room turned to face Dean.

"Hey," Sam was instantly at his side, wondering how much of the conversation his brother had heard. "You hanging in there?"

"Not…really." The words were hard fought and painful, and a new sheen of sweat was already forming on Dean's face, highlighting the deathly pallor of his skin.

Sam bit his lip and forced himself to focus.

"Dr. Bates is here," he said, glancing at the doctor with a determination that was hard to miss. "He's going to take out your appendix."

"Bates? Like…Psycho…Bates?

"Yes, just like him," Sam replied, marveling at his brother's ability to crack a joke no matter the situation.

"No…shower then...oka…" The words were interrupted by a sharp pain that sent Dean curling on his side again, his knees pulled up tightly to his chest, his breath shallow, as he frantically sought a position he could tolerate.

"SAM! S…A…M!" It was a command. An order. Dean was close to his breaking point.

"I'm here Dean, I'm right here."

"If you can't…make it…go away…you have to…kill me."

The words came in short gasps, and took forever, and when Dean was finished, Sam had reached his own threshold. His own limit of how much he could take.

"You have to help," Sam begged the doctor, unbidden tears staining his face, his voice cracking with emotion. He had held himself in check for so long, but he could no longer look at his brother without despair. Without the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him he was about to lose control.

Betty put a hand on the doctor's arm and Sam could have sworn she squeezed it. The doctor faced his wife, and then Sam, before speaking.

"There are so many risks."

But Sam didn't want to hear it.

"I know that," he interrupted, barely able to keep the sobs from his voice. "But it's our only choice."

"Can you do it?" Dr. Bates asked. "Can you cut into your brother, and take out his appendix? Can you do it if I tell you what to do?"

Sam looked at Dean, who looked right back at him with a glassy unfocused expression that nearly betrayed his resolve.

"Do…it…Sammy."

It had come down to this. The moment Sam had been praying for suddenly became the moment he'd been dreading. But when he looked at the doctor, when he replied, nothing betrayed his own response. Not his heart, threatening to burst through his chest, not even the voice in his head screaming at him to run.

"I can do it," Sam said.

Dr. Bates paused for a long time before responding. "Very well," he finally said. "But you should know there are no guarantees."

Sam nodded and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder. But as hard as he tried, he couldn't look his brother in the eye.

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Well, what do you think? Please let me know…very insecure writer here…would love to hear all comments – even the yelling for torturing Dean so much! 


	7. Chapter 7

Again – don't know what I would do without all your wonderful reviews. Thank you! I've responded to all of them, but the alerts and the emails don't seem to be working, so I hope you get them.

a/n – Pre-op at the Roadhouse. Probably not something Sam and Dean are looking forward to. But hopefully you are…

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_So on we go_

_His welfare is of my concern_

_No burden is he to bear_

_We'll get there_

_For I know_

_He would not encumber me_

_He ain't heavy, he's my brother_

The Hollies

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter Seven**

The tension in the room reached a climax the minute everyone realized what was about to happen. What they were about to do.

Ellen was the first to move, focusing only on the moment, because she knew from experience that thinking ahead in certain situations would only paralyze her. And this was definitely one of those situations.

"Ash," she began. "Where are the supplies from the clinic?"

"In Dr. Bates' car."

"Why don't you go get them, and take them into the kitchen." Turning to the doctor, she continued. "Dr. Bates, what else do you need? Where should we do this?"

"We need to operate on a solid, flat surface. A table, if you have the right size and the right height, would work. We'll need boiling water at our disposal for sterilizing. We'll need some good lighting. Betty will monitor his vitals during the surgery but you may have to hold a flashlight overhead if the light in the room isn't enough. We need…"

The doctor stopped when he heard Dean cry out in pain, followed by a rapid succession of shallow breaths.

Sam was already kneeling before him, trying to get Dean to relax, when Dr. Bates sat on the opposite side of the bed and placed the palm of his hand between Dean's shoulder blades.

"Focus on your breath, Dean. Long breaths, not short ones," he said, exerting gentle pressure as he spoke.

"Breathing…hurts."

"I know, the longer the breath the more painful. But trust me, it'll help in the long run. That's it, easy does it." The doctor worked his hand up and down Dean's spine, rhythmically, in step with Dean's breaths.

"That's right, just like that. One more deep breath, right, perfect. Keep it up."

Dean was still, his breathing even, within seconds, and Sam relaxed a little. Could it be that Bates really knew what he was doing? As much as he had begged for this, for a solution to the nightmare, he was filled with uncertainty.

"Has he had anything for the pain?" He was looking at Sam, but it was Ellen who answered when she realized Sam was somewhere else entirely.

"He took four aspirins a few hours ago."

Dr. Bates turned to his wife, his palm still pressing gently against Dean's back. "Betty, bring me some of the Demerol we picked up at the clinic. It'll relax him before we prep him."

Ellen quietly led Betty to the kitchen, leaving Sam and the doctor alone with a semi conscious Dean.

"Dean, do you have any allergies that you know of?" Dr. Bates asked.

"Hmm." Dean was battling the pain, not strong enough to answer, or cognizant enough to care, and the doctor turned to Sam.

"Any allergies, Sam? That you know of?"

"No, none that I can think of."

"Is he taking any medication?"

Sam shook his head.

The doctor watched Sam carefully. Now that he had agreed to do this, it was imperative that he gain his trust. There could be no second guessing him once Dean was under the anesthetic.

"University of Michigan Medical School, 1937," he volunteered.

"What?"

"Where I went to medical school, the year I graduated."

Sam looked up at the doctor, the questions silently pouring out of him. What could he say? I'm worried that you're almost a hundred years old? That you were born before insulin was discovered? Decades before the polio vaccine and pacemakers hit the market?

"I didn't doubt." Was all he could say.

"I know. I was just offering. I was an Army doctor during World War II."

"Like Hawkeye Pierce in MASH?" Dean loved that show when they were little. So much that Sam had been scared Dean would join the Army the minute he was old enough.

"Not quite as glamorous. But I did spend six months in France, near the front lines."

"Did you do any appendectomies in the field?"

"No. I did a lot of amputations. A lot of sewing." A sharp intake of breath from Dean sent the doctor in another direction. "Just relax, Dean. That's right, deep breath. I know it hurts but not for much longer. That's right, just like that."

"Sam." It was a muffled cry as Dean buried his head in his pillow, another pointless attempt to squelch the misery.

"I'm right here."

Dean didn't say anything else. He just needed to know that Sam was still there. Still with him. The incessant pain was making it difficult to string together more than a couple of words, and when he tried it came out in gasps, an incoherent babble that didn't come close to what his brain wanted to say.

Sam took Dean's hand in his and held it, the heat radiating from it sending chills up his arm. He could see from the expression on Dean's face the unrealistic control he was exerting, the undeniable strength that had sustained his family from one tragedy to another, and he wondered how his brother did it.

With an unexpected force Sam finally understood what a crushing blow their father's death had been to Dean. His brother had spent a lifetime pursuing an ideal, a model of family set forth by the loss of a mother, by an unrepentant and demanding father, by his own desires to be wanted and needed. It was an ideal that was unrealistic in the best of circumstances, impossible in theirs. And yet Dean never realized he was chasing a dream. Not when Sam left for Stanford. Not when his father died. All he saw was failure. An inability to maintain what was expected of him. What he expected of himself. His father's death meant more to him than simply missing the man, it was the end of a purpose. His purpose. Sam felt the tears fall and ignored them.

When he could no longer stand to dwell on his thoughts, when his heart couldn't take it anymore, Sam forced himself to look away. To see something besides his brother's pain. Dr. Bates was gently massaging Dean's neck and Sam was grateful when he spoke to him.

"There's a lot of tension here," Dr. Bates said, pretending he didn't see the tears Sam had yet to wipe off his face. "Probably the most valuable thing I learned from being a medic during the war."

"What's that?"

"Half the battle is helping the patient relax. In cases of extreme pain, like this one, the adrenaline cursing through your brother's body is enough to keep him on high alert. So even when the pain lessens the adrenaline makes it so it doesn't feel any different. If the patient can relax, the adrenaline diminishes, offering marked relief."

It made sense, even to Sam, who had been on his own version of high alert for hours.

"How's he doing?" Ellen had just entered the room with Betty, who was carrying a small tray that held a medicine bottle, a syringe and a few other things Sam couldn't make out from his position on the floor.

"About the same," the doctor offered. "Sam, switch sides with me. You rub his neck while I administer the Demerol."

"And what is Demerol, exactly?" Sam asked as he walked around the bed. He suddenly felt so responsible for his older brother, and he wondered if this was how Dean felt about him all the time.

"It's a narcotic analgesic, pain reliever," Dr. Bates clarified. "Often used on pregnant women, during and after labor." Dr. Bates lowered his voice to a whisper before continuing. He wasn't sure how much of the conversation Dean could follow, if any, but he didn't want to increase his anxiety with more information than he needed.

"Would not be my first choice if I had another option."

"Why not?" Sam asked.

"There's other stuff out there, with better sedative qualities, fewer side effects. Ideally we would put him out of his misery now, administer the versed before transferring him, but we can't risk using any more of it than we have to. I'd rather have it in the back end."

"Versed?"

"It's a benzodiazepine." Sam raised his eyebrows and Dr. Bates tried again. "It's a tranquilizer, a sedative commonly used in pre-op. Quick onset, short duration, halts the formation of memories."

"Halts what?"

"That's the beauty of it. It keeps the patient from remembering anything that happened during surgery."

"So that's the anesthetic?"

"Not by itself. By itself your brother would be writhing in pain the entire time. It's a muscle relaxant, gets us halfway there. In combination with the nitrous oxide, Dean will feel no pain and remember nothing."

"Isn't nitrous oxide laughing gas?"

"Right. On its own it's not strong enough to be used as a general anesthetic, but with the versed it should work out fine."

"Should?" Sam was hoping for stronger words.

"We're making due with what the clinic had, Sam, but don't worry. The combination of the two will do the job."

It was more information than he could process, and Sam wondered how much more was coming. He stopped asking questions and watched as Betty tied a thick rubber band on Dean's arm before searching for a vein. When she had found what she was looking for she rubbed the area with a cotton swab drenched in alcohol and handed her husband the syringe.

Dean didn't have the strength or the presence to hold out his arm, so Betty held it in place for her husband, whispering words of comfort Sam didn't think his brother could hear.

"Excellent vein. Nice and plump," Dr. Bates said right before administering the injection.

Sam held his breath while Bates worked, amazed the man could keep his hands steady long enough to perform the simple task.

"Hmm." It was Dean's attempt to acknowledge the needle.

"All done," the doctor said gently, feeling Dean's wrist for a pulse. "That should make you feel better in a few minutes."

Sam stood still, trying mindlessly to ignore the early signs of dread. Just seeing the needle go in his brother's arm had made him lightheaded and nauseous. Did he really think he could cut him open and take out his appendix?

"Sam," the doctor said, interrupting his thoughts. "Rub his neck, the way I was. We need to relax him as much as possible before moving him. That's going to be a bitch."

"What?" The doctor's choice of words seemed so out of place coming from the little wrinkled man before him.

"We are going to have to get him into the operating room, wherever that's going to be, soon. And moving him isn't going to be a pleasant experience."

Sam rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. Could they torment his brother any more?

Ellen moved closer to Sam and stood directly in front of him. Dean wasn't the only one she had been worried about all afternoon, and it wasn't the first time she had wondered if Sam was going to be okay. As solid as he appeared in his quest to protect his brother, she knew the fear was just beneath the surface, threatening to derail his best intentions.

"Hey, you all right?"

Sam brought down the hand from his face, but avoided her gaze.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Listen, you're not doing this alone. I'm going to be right there with you, okay?

Sam nodded, looking into her eyes for a brief second, long enough to know she meant it.

He moved back to Dean's side, to follow doctor's orders and begin rubbing his brother's neck, when Dean called out to him.

"I'm right here."

"Going to…throw…up."

"What?" Sam looked up at the doctor and back at Dean, who was gagging, his hand over his mouth.

Betty sprung into action immediately, grabbing a trashcan from the corner of the room that she placed as close to Dean as possible, while her husband shouted instructions.

"Lift his head, Sam, his upper body. Hurry."

Sam did as he was told, wincing with the effort it took to maneuver his brother's nearly dead weight. With the effort to ignore Dean's cry of agony as his body was yanked up and thrust forward.

Dean shook violently, his body refusing to cooperate, to stay in one place unless Sam held it there. He gagged once, twice, three times, and each time nearly passed out from the effort. By the fourth time it was obvious there was nothing in him, nothing he could get rid of that would make him feel better. The dry heaves that followed only confirmed the obvious.

By the time the nausea had passed several minutes later, Dean's body sagged against Sam's, his head leaning forward, his skin clammy. He was listless and barely conscious, the only sign of life a low whimper that sounded like humming.

Sam held on with sheer will, his head buried against Dean's neck, unable to let him go. Even his own breath was shallow as he closed his eyes against the overwhelming warmth of his brother's skin.

"Side effect of the Demerol," the doctor was saying, trying to get Dean away from Sam, into a more comfortable position.

But Sam had other plans, and the grip on his brother was more than the doctor could handle on his own.

"Sam, it's okay. Let him go." Ellen was tugging at his arm.

Sam pulled his head back gradually, all eyes boring into him as he slowly released his brother, carefully placing his head on the pillow before pushing himself off the bed and standing.

Dr. Bates immediately leaned over the bed and checked Dean's pulse. It was fast and thready, a sure indication that shock was setting in, but he kept the assessment to himself. Elevating Dean's feet above his heart might help a little, but the trauma of moving him would most likely cancel any of the benefit.

"This is bullshit!" Sam said, his emotions tightly held, the anger in his tone. "We cannot waste any more time. Ellen, please help Dr. Bates figure out where we should do the surgery, set up what he needs, whatever you have to do so we can get started as soon as possible."

"Right." Ellen was pleased with the shift, with the fury in Sam's voice. It was the only emotion he could afford to have right now, anything else would be dangerous. She moved quickly, ushering the doctor and his wife out of the room, but not before Dr. Bates turned around with a list of instructions.

"Sam, be alert for any respiratory problems. I doubt he'll have any, but it's another side effect of the Demerol. And work on relaxing him. Talk to him. Reminisce about something you did that was fun when you were younger. Anything to distract him."

Sam almost laughed out loud. Anything fun that happened in their lives happened before his six month birthday. And he was hard pressed to remember what that was.

"Sam." It was so low Sam almost missed it.

Sam took a deep breath and forced a shift. He did not want his brother to see him this way. Angry and frustrated. Scared.

"Hey." Sam sat directly across from Dean and lowered his head to meet his brother's gaze. It was remarkably clear and focused and Sam blinked back his surprise.

"You sure…you want…to do this?"

Sam had to lean forward to catch everything, Dean's voice a breathless whisper.

"What?" Sam knew what he meant, where he was coming from, but couldn't deal with selfless Dean just then.

"You…don't have…to."

"Yes I do." Sam put his hand on Dean's head, the warmth for an instant making him feel better.

"If something…happens…not your…fault."

And there it was. If something happened, if Dean died at the hands of his brother, Dean couldn't bear the thought of what that would do to Sam.

Sam took a deep breath, hoping it would give him the infinite amount of patience he needed to continue the conversation, to allay his brother's fears.

"Nothing is going to happen, Dean. Dr. Bates knows what he's doing. He worked as a medic in the front lines, during the war."

"The…civil…war?"

And at that Sam really did laugh out loud. He didn't think Dean had been coherent enough to notice Bates was prehistoric. It's what made him such a good hunter. Nothing got by him.

"Very funny. I'll have you know he's got a very firm handshake."

"Thank…God."

Sam could actually see some of the pain dissipating, Dean's features not so strained, his jaw relaxed. Maybe the Demerol had taken the edge off after all.

"And why…is…Grandma Moses…with him?"

"Betty?" Sam laughed again and marveled at his brother's ability to help him relax.

"That's his wife. I think she might have been a nurse or something. She seems to know what she's doing."

"I hope so." It was the only morsel Dean offered that showed any apprehension, any fear.

"It's going to be okay."

It felt so good to be having a real conversation with his brother, and Sam hoped his voice carried enough confidence for both of them.

Dean looked at Sam for a long moment, focused on the fear his brother was trying desperately to hide. He wanted to tell Sam that he trusted him, that he knew he was in good hands. He wanted to reassure him. But only one word kept repeating inside his head.

"Sorry," he finally said.

"For what?"

He wanted to apologize for being distant and hard to talk to, when he knew it was the only thing Sam ever wanted from him. For a million things he'd said and done during a lifetime of dysfunction. Mostly he wanted to apologize for keeping secrets. For honoring his father and not his brother.

"What are you sorry about, Dean?"

"For getting sick." He couldn't do it. Didn't have the strength or the energy to bare his soul. To betray his father. So he could relax again. So he could look his brother in the eye again.

"Like you could help that. What you should be sorry for is pretending that you were okay when you weren't." Sam couldn't stop himself. "You should have said something, man, we might have avoided this whole back roads medicine stuff."

"Only had a headache when we got here, Sammy. Who knew?" Dean's eyes were fluttering, and he was having a hard time staying awake, his voice soft and sleepy.

Sam was almost sorry to see it. For the first time in hours he could breathe, think straight. The energy he gained from a lucid conversation with his brother surprising him.

"Dean."

"Hmm." Dean forced his eyes open.

"Never mind." It was selfish, he knew, trying to extend the conversation to build his reserves for what was to come.

"Sam?" There was so much Dean wanted to say, needed to say, but he could barely keep his eyes open, the lids falling helplessly against his will.

"Yeah."

"Thanks." That would have to do for now.

"Don't mention it."

Sam watched his brother sleep, and found it hard to believe that a year ago he wasn't sure if or when he would ever see him again. He had missed him, deeply in the beginning, but then, with time, with the memories fading, with Jess' help, he had felt whole again. Now he knew it had been an illusion. Jess had filled a gaping hole, but nothing could replace the space his brother filled. The sheer volume of shared tragedy and hope made that impossible.

"Sam, we're ready for him." Ellen was at the doorway. She looked so small, her voice so low. It hadn't occurred to him that she was probably terrified.

"Hey, Ellen, I, we, we never even discussed this. I mean, I didn't even ask if it was okay, to do this here. In your house." Sam was stumbling. Now that the time had actually come his mind was all over the place, asking Ellen for permission was just one of many things short circuiting his brain.

"It's fine, Sam. Don't worry about that. If this had to happen I'm glad I could be here to help." She knew Sam was having second thoughts, questioning his every move. It was impossible for him not to.

"Listen," she continued. "I know you're scared. I'd be scared if you weren't. And I have to say, I had my reservations about Bates, the guy's ancient, but he's sharp as a tack. And Betty was his nurse for most of his career. I just saw them in action, and they're in sync. They know what they're doing, and they're not scared. Truth be told, I think you've put a little spring in their step. This is probably the most exciting thing they've done in 30 years."

Sam had to smile at that.

"You're in good hands," Ellen added. "Dean's in good hands. And I will be next to you the whole time. If you get overwhelmed, at any point in time, I will be there to help. Okay?"

Sam took a deep breath and nodded, looking at his brother as he spoke. "If anything happens to him."

"Don't, Sam. Don't do that to yourself."

Sam nodded again, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"So," he said, forcing himself to the present. "Where are we doing this?"

"The kitchen. I found an eight foot banquet table in the garage that's perfect. We cleaned it with boiling water and then drenched it in Betadine."

"Betadine?"

"It's a disinfectant you can apply to the skin. According to Bates, it's almost always used on surgical patients. Ash must have nabbed a year's supply from the clinic, because we've saturated just about everything in the stuff. We boiled all the instruments for about 10 minutes, and then soaked them in Betadine for good measure."

Sam stopped listening as the reality of what they were about to do began to sink in.

"Sam?"

"Huh?"

Ellen was looking at him with a funny expression, and Sam wondered how many times she had called his name.

"Dr. Bates feels the least painful way to move Dean would be to carry him in your arms. But if you can't, if he's too heavy, Ash said he'd help."

"No, I got him."

"Okay then, whenever you're ready." Ellen was still focusing on the moment, not a second ahead.

Sam bit his lower lip and searched his brother's face for any clue that he was awake, that he was listening. There was nothing. Only the warm glow from the fever betraying just how sick he really was.

Gently, praying silently that he wouldn't wake up, Sam pulled back the covers and slid his arms underneath Dean's body, behind his knees and behind his shoulders, careful with the injured arm, and lifted him up. Dean's solid frame was all muscle, and Sam was making every effort not to grunt under the weight. He didn't want to give his brother any reason to stir.

Unfortunately, Dean's appendix didn't share Sam's compassion, and the sudden movement sent Dean gasping and out of his drug induced slumber.

Disoriented and groggy, Dean thrashed in agony, trying to get away from the hands that held him, that were causing him so much pain.

Sam was doing his best to hang on to him, terrified he was going to drop him.

"Dean, stop, it's me, Sam. Dean, calm down."

But Dean couldn't hear him above the crushing wave of panic.

Ellen stood in front of Sam, her body pressed against Dean's, her hands sliding under him, beside Sam's, attempting to control the flailing, the thrashing. She left the talking to Sam. If Dean was going to hear anyone, it was going to be his brother.

"Dean, please. Stop."

Dean swung an arm in the air and caught Sam squarely in the jaw, forcing him to stumble backwards. The lingering pain did nothing to ease Sam's fears, but he swallowed it and tried again, tightening the hold on his brother. Where was all the strength coming from? Shouldn't he be weak with fever? Pain? Was it adrenaline wreaking so much havoc?

"DEAN! STOP!"

Sam? Sam, is that you? Run, Sam, don't let them get you. They've got me, Sam. Run.

"DEAN!"

"Sam." It was said through a gasp, on the run, to no one in particular, and Sam realized his brother was lost.

"Dean, look at me. It's me. I'm right here. I've got you."

Dean's eyes were wide, unfocused, darting back and forth between Sam and Ellen. Trying desperately to find their way back. Their way to Sam.

"Look at me, Dean."

The breaths came quickly as the spasms intensified and the frenetic energy disappeared, leaving Dean spent, limp, against his brother's arms.

"Sa…"

"It's okay. I've got you. I'm right here."

Sam looked at Ellen and nodded, her signal to step back, to give them both some privacy.

Dean's face was tortured with confusion, his eyes wet, and Sam held him closer.

"Hurts." It was faint. A mild rumble against Sam's chest.

"I know. We're on our way to make it stop." Sam was gentle, and calm, and Dean clung to him as they made their way to Ellen's kitchen, to the operating room.

---------

Still with me?

Please let me know your thoughts, your comments. I so need to know you're ready for Dr. Sam. :-)


	8. Chapter 8

Again, your reviews are inspiring. Thank you so much for taking the time to send them. I've responded to all of them, but the alerts and emails are still not working…I hope you get them eventually.

a/n – This story was finished before I started posting, but because you've been so generous and kind with your reviews, I felt you deserved a better surgery chapter. :-) So I went back and did more research, and hopefully came up with a better chapter. I have no medical knowledge, and like I said in the beginning, it's more fun to inflict than to cure. But I've become so attached to Dean, I thought I'd at least try. Thanks to LP for her help with the vitals. Thanks to GS for the boost.

**---------**

**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter Eight **

During a storm the trees overlooking the windows in Ellen's kitchen cast shadows that dance with the wind, giving the entire room an ominous feel. This was the first thing Sam noticed when he entered the room with Dean in his arms.

The makeshift operating room had been stripped of anything that wasn't necessary, fewer things to contaminate the patient with, and the only furniture remaining was the banquet table, two stools and a small card table that held the instruments and supplies necessary for the surgery.

Sam carried Dean directly to the table, setting him down gently, soothing and talking to him the entire time. But Dean wouldn't let go, was afraid to put any distance between him and his brother, and looked to Sam for reassurance.

"It's okay," Sam said, his voice a whisper. The walk from the bedroom had felt personal and privileged, and he wasn't ready to share the moment with anyone. To betray any more of his brother's anxiety. "You can let go. I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Straightening his body against the table brought with it more pain, and Dean clenched his jaw against it, his whole body stiff as he shut his eyes and waited for it to pass.

Sam felt the familiar guilt as he watched his brother steel himself against the pain, and continued to hover, holding Dean's hand as he shivered against the cold table, as the doctor began to speak.

"Sam, you need to scrub."

"Can we get a blanket or something?" Sam asked. "He's freezing."

"There's nothing that's sterilized," Dr. Bates replied. "We can't take any chances."

Sam watched Dean breathe through the cold, frustrated he couldn't even provide his brother warmth.

"You need to scrub."

"What?"

"Come with me," Ellen said, trying to get him to release his brother's hand. "You need to wash your hands with disinfectant and hot water, get a surgical gown on, gloves, mask.

It was then that Sam noticed Dr. Bates, Betty and Ash were scrubbed and ready to go, looking like the surgical team they were, nothing but their eyes showing.

Sam tried to pull away and felt Dean's hand tighten around his own, unwilling to let go.

"It's okay. I'll be right back. I'm just going to wash my hands."

Dean's eyes widened as he looked around the room, unable to recognize anyone besides his brother.

"Stay," he pleaded, his voice low and strained, and Sam knew the Demerol had worn off. The lucid conversation they'd had just minutes before now a distant memory.

Sam could only imagine what was going through Dean's head. He was crazy with pain and fever, in a kitchen, surrounded by people in hospital gowns, whose faces he couldn't see. If he had it in him to get up and run, he probably would.

"I'm not going far," Sam said, in a tone so tender it surprised him. "Look, if you turn your head you can see the sink. I'm just going to walk to the sink and wash my hands."

Dean turned his head, could see the sink, but still couldn't release his brother. There was something he had to tell him, and he was afraid the minute Sam left the doctor would give him a shot and he would be out. Unconscious. Might not wake up. Couldn't take it with him. But the pain had once again rendered him speechless, unable to do anything but suck in air.

Sam looked at Bates. "Can't we put him under now, before I wash my hands?" It was obvious Dean was confused, didn't understand what was going on, and Sam didn't have the heart to deny him anything.

"That's not a good idea."

"Why?" Sam's voice was low, measured, he didn't want his brother to hear him, to sense the fear he was trying so hard to suppress. "For God's sake, we're about to perform surgery in a kitchen. How much contamination can I cause when you stick him with a needle?"

"That's not it," the doctor replied patiently. The last thing Dean needed was for Sam to lose control. "The longer he's under, the greater the chance of complications as a result of the anesthetic. We can't afford complications."

"Dean." It was Ellen this time, standing across from Sam, on the other side of the table. "I'm right here too. Can I keep you company while Sam washes his hands?" She didn't want to insult Dean by offering to hold his hand, just wanted him to know he wasn't alone.

Dean didn't look at Ellen, instead he turned his head to face the sink, releasing Sam's hand as he did so.

"I'll be right back," Sam said, wasting no time.

Betty was right behind him, showing him the disinfectant he needed to use, reminding him to use hot water, as hot as he could take it. When he was done, she placed the gloves on his hands, and then helped him put on the surgical gown and the mask, which Sam insisted she keep off his face until he could see his brother again.

"Hey, I'm back," Sam said, forcing a smile. "What do you think of the outfit? Not my color, right?"

Dean's lips parted, ready to speak, but the pain in his side was now radiating into his back, creating new spasms that were making him lose focus, lose sight of Sam, and he was afraid that if he tried to speak only screaming would come out.

"What is it?"

Dean tried again, this time allowing air to escape but nothing else. The words were there, in his head.

_I have to tell you something. Something Dad told me before he died. I don't want to take it with me. _

But he couldn't transfer the words to his mouth, to his voice. Couldn't get them out of his head and off his conscience.

"Dean, I'm going to put the IV in now," Dr. Bates kept his voice low and even. "You will feel a little burning sensation at first, but nothing else."

_No. Wait! I have to tell Sam something. _

Dean opened his mouth to speak, to form the words once more, but they were interrupted by a series of rapid fire breaths he couldn't stop.

"What's wrong? What's the matter with him?" Sam put a hand on Dean's chest, forcing a connection as he breathed in tandem with his brother's heart.

"He's hyperventilating," Bates answered, taking Dean's hand. "As soon as we get the IV in he'll calm down."

_No. No. Not yet. I have to tell Sam_.

Dean pulled his hand from the doctor with remarkable strength, the swift motion causing more spasms to wrack his body. He banged his fists against the table to keep from crying out, but it was useless, the pain was too far out of his control, and he groaned loudly in spite of himself.

"Dean, what's wrong? What's the matter?" Sam searched his brother's face for the answer, but couldn't find it. Couldn't see anything other than the anguish he'd been looking at all day.

"Sam, Ash, hold him still so I can get the IV in."

"No!" Sam was adamant.

"Sam," Dr. Bates began. "As soon as we can get the versed in he'll relax. And as soon as he relaxes we can start the nitrous oxide, putting him out of his misery."

"No," Sam repeated, a little weaker than before. "He's not so out of it that he doesn't know what he's doing. There's a reason he doesn't want you to put the IV in. Maybe…" Sam faltered, and looked to his brother for a sign, anything that could shed some light on his actions. "Maybe he's changed his mind. Maybe he doesn't want us to do this."

"Sam, he's out of his mind with pain. He doesn't know what he wants."

"I don't believe that."

Sam put his hands on Dean's shoulders, until he could feel the shaking stop, until his brother looked at him.

"I can't do this if you don't want me to," he said when Dean was listening.

Dean wanted to shout. To scream at the top of his lungs.

_No, Sam, no, that's not what this is about. I have to tell you something. _

But all he could do was breathe. Anything else was out of the question.

"I need to know, Dean. I need to know you still want me to do this." Sam closed his eyes, for a moment feeling like he was going to pass out. He was convinced his brother would die without the surgery. And yet he was certain he couldn't do it without his blessing.

_Oh God, Sam, please don't cry._

"Sammy."

Sam opened his eyes and faced his brother.

"It's okay," Dean whispered. It was too late. He'd waited too long. Weeks if he was honest with himself. He should have told his brother sooner. Now was not the time. He would just have to live through this, make sure he was around for Sam. Around for the storm that was coming. With Sammy at the center, he would have to hold up the rear.

"Are you sure?"

Dean nodded. "Leave a nice scar…for the…girls."

Dean moved his arm towards Bates, further proof that he was ready to be put out of his misery.

Betty got the go ahead from her husband and wasted no time, once again tying a thick rubber band above Dean's elbow and searching for a vein.

"All right, Dean, here we go." Bates had the needle in within seconds. "Just a slight burning sensation, but that'll pass quickly."

Dean closed his eyes. He didn't care what it felt like, as long as it made the pain go away.

With the IV line in, Dr. Bates put the antibiotic in one port, and then the first dose of versed, the sedative, in the other.

"Count for me, Dean. Backwards," Dr. Bates said. "From one hundred."

You've got to be kidding me? If I could count backwards I could talk to my brother.

"Go on, Dean, try." It was Sam this time. Sam's not looking too hot. Poor Sammy. Maybe if I do this for him he'll feel better.

"99…98…97…" This is so lame. Where was I? "92…91…86…"

While he counted Dr. Bates placed the oxygen mask over Dean's nose and mouth and started the nitrous oxide.

The mask caused a strange sensation, and Dean squirmed under it, his immediate reaction to reach up and take it off. But there was Sam, leaning forward, talking to him. Sam knew. Sam always knew.

"It's okay. Keep counting."

Dean looked at his brother and suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to close his eyes.

He was out, and everyone in the room sighed in relief at the same time.

Dr. Bates wasted no time, the chaos of the last few minutes not even a blip on his radar, and immediately started giving instructions.

"Listen up. From here on out we work quickly but carefully." He had already pulled down Dean's boxers and was painting Betadine all over his right side, the brown liquid soaking into his skin as he went.

"Ellen," the doctor continued. "Are you ready?"

"I am." Ellen came up behind the doctor, scrubbed and covered from head to toe in surgical gear.

"All right then, remember what I said. You need to shave that entire area on the right.

Ellen picked up the shaving cream and her sterilized Daisy razor and got to work.

"Ash, keep the flashlight steady, make sure Ellen has all the light she needs."

Ash took his position on the stool directly across from Ellen, on Dean's left side, flashlight positioned in mid air. Without daylight filtering through the windows, the lighting was dim at best. The flashlight was essential.

Sam could only imagine what Dean would say if he knew what Ellen was doing, and he prayed that the miracle drug really did keep memories from forming, and that there would be enough for him at the end of the day.

Dr. Bates looked at Betty, who was situated further up, by Dean's head, monitoring his blood pressure and pulse. He only needed to look at his wife to get his answers.

"Pressure is 90 over 55. Pulse is 75."

"Not bad. Temperature?"

"104."

"Not so good," he said under his breath. "Can you get his jewelry off? The ring, the chain, those bracelets."

Betty nodded and did as she was told, putting all of Dean's jewelry on the counter behind her.

"Sam."

Sam jumped when he heard his name. He had been watching everyone work as if he were watching a movie, a bad horror film filled with static and bad lighting, and he had no desire to join the cast.

Dr. Bates ignored the expression on Sam's face and took him aside.

"Listen," he said, trying to remember what it was like to have children that weren't grandparents. "I remember my first surgery during the war. This kid I'd had breakfast with that morning, Joe Cooper, was dragged in, right foot hanging by a tendon."

Sam winced at the image.

"Yeah," Bates acknowledged. "It was appalling to say the least. We had to put him out with chloroform. It was all we had. And we operated on a cot, six inches from the ground. Dirt everywhere."

Sam was staring at the doctor, hoping he had a point.

The expression wasn't lost on Bates as he continued. "I was terrified, Sam. I've never been more scared. Not before that day and not after. Joe Cooper was someone I'd met 10 hours before, by chance," Dr. Bates paused, making sure he had Sam's attention. "He wasn't my brother, and I was terrified."

Sam was beginning to understand, even if he didn't think it was helping.

'Don't deny the fear, Sam," Dr. Bates continued. "It's a waste of time and energy. It's not going away. Work through it, and before you know it you and Dean will be on the other side of it."

"What if," Sam could barely get the words out. "What if I can't do it?"

"Look around you, Sam. This entire Twilight Zone episode in Ellen's kitchen is your show. You've made it happen. I've never seen a will like yours, or your brother's for that matter. You will not let Dean down, and more importantly, you will not let yourself down."

"Put this on," Bates added, when he thought he'd lectured enough, and handed Sam what looked like a shower cap. "The last thing your brother needs is all that hair of yours near the incision. And get a new pair of gloves from Betty, you contaminated those when you put your hands on Dean's chest."

"Done." Ellen had barely wiped off the last of the shaving cream when Bates was beside her, painting more Betadine on Dean's side. When he was satisfied he took a surgical marker and made two small exes, roughly three inches apart, on the lower right side of Dean's abdomen.

"All right, Sam. He's ready for you."

Miraculously, Sam felt his feet moving beneath him as he made his way around the table to stand between Dr. Bates and Ellen. Looking down at his brother's body he couldn't help but notice how still and lifeless it was. Helpless in its ability to defend itself. In its ability to survive on its own. Sam shook when he realized his brother's survival depended on him.

Conscious of the minutes ticking away, Bates handed Sam what looked like a bread knife with a slightly curved blade on the end.

"It's a scalpel," Dr. Bates was saying, and Sam willed the pounding in his ears to go away. He couldn't afford to miss any information.

"It's very sharp," Bates continued. "You don't have to push too hard. Start with the tip, where one of the exes is, and push in, about half an inch at first and then slide it over to the other x."

Sam was certain his eyes were bigger than his head as he tried to come to terms with what he was about to do. What was he thinking? That was it, he wasn't thinking. Hadn't been thinking straight all day. All he'd been focused on was Dean, and making him feel better, making the pain go away. His brain had somehow tricked him into believing that he could really do this, could save his brother's life. But what if he didn't? What if he killed him instead?

_You can do this, Sammy._

_Dad?_

_Just follow directions, you were always good at that in school._

_What if I make it worse?_

_You won't. _

_But…_

_You need to take care of Dean, Sammy. It's your turn right now._

"Sam, we don't have a lot of time," Dr. Bates urged, interrupting his thoughts. "Remember, he can't feel anything, you're not going to hurt him."

"It's my turn," Sam whispered to no one in particular. He took a deep breath and made the first incision, his hands surprisingly steady. The blade went in easily and he was amazed how effortless it was to get from one x to the other. He was starting to relax when he saw the first of the blood oozing from the incision.

"You're doing great, Sam. Now go back in and slide through to the next layer, about a quarter inch, that'll be the rectus muscle."

The idea of cutting through any muscle didn't sound good, and Sam wished the doctor would give him the bare minimum. Save the lengthy explanations for someone who could handle them.

More blood as he went deeper, and Sam could feel sweat pouring down his face, his feet shifting uncomfortably underneath him, his legs heavy.

"Here, take these." Dr. Bates took the scalpel from Sam and handed him a pair of long, thin scissors. "But wait until the retractor is in place before using them."

Dr. Bates reached across Sam to Ellen and handed her the retractor. "Do you remember how to use it?" he asked.

Ellen nodded, recalling what Betty had taught her less than an hour before. Squeezing the retractor into the incision, Ellen pushed it open and clamped it in place, giving Sam a good view of the tissues lining his brother's stomach.

"Okay, Sam, now the scissors," Dr. Bates began. "You need to cut through the peritoneum, it's very thin, and it's what holds the intestines, the guts, the bowels, so you want to make sure you don't go deeper than you have to, or you could damage any one of those."

Again, too much information, Sam thought, as he reached up to wipe the sweat clouding his eyes.

"What are you doing?" Sam jumped at the doctor's tone.

"What?"

"You cannot touch your face with your hands. We've got enough to worry about without you contaminating the incision."

Sam blinked back the sweat. "I've got, my eyes…"

"Ellen, here," Dr. Bates said, handing her a surgical cloth. "Wipe the sweat off of Sam's face. Keep an eye on him and do it as often as you need to."

"You're doing great," Ellen offered, and Sam took a deep breath.

"All right, Sam, you need to cut through that thin layer of tissue."

Sam leaned forward and began cutting, not prepared for what happened next. Blood and fluid gushed from the incision, forcing him to step back, staring at Bates for answers.

"What's wrong? What did I do?"

"Nothing. This is to be expected." The doctor was prepared, and was instantly suctioning out the excess blood and fluid with a small hand held pump.

While Bates worked Sam stole a glance at his brother's face, what he could see of it under the oxygen mask, and said a silent prayer.

"Betty, what are his vitals?"

"85 over 50. Pulse is 70"

"Is that good or bad?"

"It's fine." Bates finished suctioning and put the pump aside.

"All right, Sam, we're back in business."

Easy for you to say.

"See the bowel right there?"

Sam looked inside his brother and back at the doctor, eyes wide.

"Trust me, that's his bowel. The appendix is right behind that. You need to pull the bowel aside to get to the cause of all this trouble." Bates handed Sam another instrument. "Use this to pull aside the bowel."

Oh God. I have to do what to his bowel? Sam felt Ellen wiping the sweat off his face. He wanted to sit down. To grab the side of the table to keep from falling over. He took a breath that caught in his throat and hesitated. What was he doing? Who did he think he was?

"Sam, you're doing great. But we don't have a lot of time."

Sam nodded, placing the instrument inside his brother and gently pushing the bowel out of the way.

Dr. Bates leaned forward, inches from Dean, and peered inside.

"I'll be damned."

"What? What is it?" Sam had stopped breathing.

"For one thing, we made the right diagnosis, his appendix is inflamed. See all that fluid around it?"

Sam looked down and stared at Dean's appendix, surprised at how something so tiny could have caused so much trouble. It looked like a worm, about an inch and a half long and a quarter inch wide, and it was covered in a thick fluid.

"That's exudate," Bates continued. "It escapes from the blood vessels as a result of inflammation. Pus, really."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, my boy," Sam could see the doctor's smile through his eyes. "The appendix is on its way to rupturing."

"On it's way? You mean?"

Bates nodded. "I would have bet my retirement that puppy had ruptured."

"So it didn't rupture? That's good, right?" Sam didn't dare relax, not yet.

"It's great news," Bates said, hesitating. "But it makes no sense."

"What makes no sense?"

"The high fever, the pain. It's rare for an appendix that's not gangrenous, that hasn't ruptured. Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"His immune system must be off. A healthy immune system would have offered more protection. Has he been sick recently?"

"He was in a car accident not that long ago."

"Was he hurt?"

Sam nodded, the memory too recent, too painful.

"How badly?"

Sam thought about the accident. Pictured Dean in the hospital. In a coma. Flat lining.

"Pretty badly." He left out the part about the demon. The torture. The blood loss.

"That's it," Bates said, shaking his head. "His immune system must be a mess. I should have been more thorough." Bates was beating himself up for not asking more questions during his examination. But if he had doubted Dean's immunity, his ability to fight off infection, he most likely would have refused to do the surgery.

"Let's get the appendix and close him up," he said, a sense of urgency in his voice. "I'm afraid his immune system can't cope with much more."

Sam felt lightheaded. For an instant, when he realized the appendix hadn't ruptured, he was elated beyond words. But now Bates was talking immune system, in an anxious tone, and Sam was sick to his stomach.

"Sam," Bates prodded, trying to get his attention. "We have to hurry. You need to cut out the appendix and then do a stitch at the cecum."

"The what?" Sam was having a hard time focusing.

"It's the first portion of the large intestine. The appendix is attached to it. When you remove the appendix you'll need to do a stitch there to stop any bleeding."

Sam nodded, the fear threatening to spill into his hands, the same ones he was using to save his brother with, and he forced himself to concentrate. To ignore the panic slowly taking hold.

Ellen was wiping his face again, and he took the opportunity to look at his brother. He wanted to tell him his appendix hadn't ruptured, he wanted to share the good news with him, hear whatever smartass remark would be at the tip of his tongue. He wanted to pretend all he had was good news. They would deal with his immune system later.

Bates was handing him another instrument. "All right, Sam, here you go."

Getting the appendix out and tying the stitch on the cecum was painstaking, and on more than one occasion Sam questioned his sanity. He felt as if he was painting by numbers underwater, holding his breath as he worked in slow motion, following every direction Bates threw his way.

He was checking the stitch as instructed when Dean's insides turned a bright red, blood pumping out in every direction.

"What's happening?" Sam looked at Bates, who was off the stool and on his feet instantly, the suction pump already in his hand.

"Damn. You may have nicked a blood vessel."

"What? How?" It was all Sam could do not to rub his hands across his face, over his eyes, as he tried to erase the image of blood gushing from his brother.

Bates was pumping out the blood as fast as he could, but it wasn't fast enough. "Sam," he said. "Take over. My hand is cramping. Betty, what's his heart rate?"

"118."

"Damn it! Come on, Dean, don't do this. We're almost done. Come on." For the first time since his arrival Dr. Bates raised his voice, as if Dean could hear him if he shouted. As if he had any control over the bleeding.

"124."

"Sam, keep your hand steady. Just get the blood out. Make sure you don't touch any organs."

"130"

Sam was underwater again, finding it difficult to breathe. Certain it was pure adrenaline that was keeping him standing, keeping him in the room as it filled with his brother's blood.

"Pressure is 80 over 45."

"Sam, get out of the way."

Sam barely had any time to move, to pull out the pump, when Bates took over, placing two fingers inside the incision as he searched for the source of the bleeding.

"Sam, Get the hemostat. Quick."

"What?"

"It looks like scissors, on the edge of the table. It's a clamp. Hurry."

Sam went to hand Bates the clamp when he realized the doctor's good hand was inside Dean, and his left hand was incapable of holding it.

"Pulse is 135"

"I've got it," Bates was saying, his voice unusually high. "Sam, you need to clamp right here, as soon as I move my index finger. It's a blood vessel. You ready?"

What the hell is a blood vessel? What does it look like? Sam didn't think he could see it even if he knew. All he could see was red.

"Sam! Are you ready?"

"Ready."

Dr. Bates moved his finger and Sam leaned forward, nervously following the doctor's frantic instructions. The blood making it impossible to see what he was doing.

"NOT THERE!" Bates shouted, and his voice echoed throughout the room.

Sam wanted to run. To drop everything and run into the pouring rain. Into oncoming traffic. Into a hail of bullets. He was positive anything would be better than living through this. Because if he did, and his brother didn't, how he died wouldn't matter. Only when would have any meaning.

"Right there, Sam. You've got it." The doctor's voice was impossibly high, and Sam felt himself shrinking away from it.

"Clamp, Sam. Now! Clamp now!"

Sam closed the instrument on the blood vessel and immediately the blood stopped flowing.

"Betty, vitals?" Dr. Bates looked like he had seen a ghost, but to his credit, he regained his voice instantly, providing Sam with some reassurance.

"Pulse is 140. Pressure is 65 over 40."

"Is that…"

Bates didn't wait for Sam to finish. "Pulse is too high, pressure's too low," he said, looking at the clock on the wall. "Heart's on overdrive trying to pump enough blood to keep him alive. We have to repair the vessel. Quickly."

Sam didn't think he could move, much less repair anything. He looked at his brother and tried to focus. Tried to gain strength from him. But Dean's unconscious form couldn't give him what he needed. Only Dean could do that. With a sarcastic comment, a trademark expression. Dean always knew what to say to get through the bullshit. To get through to him. But Dean was most likely dying right in front of him.

Sam forced a breath that turned into a strangled sob.

"We're almost there, Sam. Don't let him down now." Bates knew it was callous. Knew that Sam was probably watching his brother die. But there was no time to coddle him. Not if they stood a chance of saving Dean.

Sam tried breathing again, and again he choked. There was blood everywhere. His brother's blood, and he was having a hard time seeing anything else.

"Sam." It was Ellen. "Do you want me to do it?"

Sam looked at Ellen but didn't really see her. Could only see his brother. When he shot the Shtriga. When he set the Wendigo on fire. When he broke the mirror. When he wouldn't let him go back inside the house in Salvation. When he shot the demon that was beating him to a bloody pulp. Sam could have stood there forever, watching Dean save him time and again.

"Sam." It was Bates this time. "It's you or Ellen, but we have to do this now."

Sam blinked and felt the tears. "What do I need to do?"

Ellen wiped the sweat and the tears from his face, her own breath caught in her throat as she watched Sam's inner struggle. As she tried to ignore the blood that was everywhere.

"You need to stitch up the torn blood vessel."

Sam nodded his understanding, unable to say anything else.

Dr. Bates wasted no time, now worried about both brothers, and began giving instructions immediately. But in spite of the pressure to hurry he recognized from years in the trenches, he gave his instructions slowly, methodically, repeating himself every few seconds, the only way he knew Sam could manage. Until the blood vessel was repaired and he could remove the clamp.

"Perfect," Bates said, admiring Sam's handiwork. "Now pour some of this cauterizer in there, and then this alcohol, that should kill any bacteria that's in there."

Sam cringed while pouring alcohol into the open wound, even if his brother couldn't feel it, the act seemed unnatural and cruel.

"Now let's paint his insides with Betadine and close him up," Bates said, some of the tension in his voice gone.

As hard as he tried, Sam couldn't ignore what had just happened, what he had just done, and found he was shaking.

"He's okay, Sam." Ellen was wiping the sweat off his face again. "You're almost done."

Sam looked at Dean for reassurance and remembered once again that it was his turn. His turn to take care of his brother. It was the grounding he needed as he took the brush from Bates and liberally spread the Betadine.

"Betty, pulse? Pressure?"

"Pulse is 105. Pressure is still 65 over 40."

"Why hasn't his blood pressure changed?" Sam wanted to understand what was happening, even if he wasn't sure he could handle it.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Bates said, no emotion in his voice. "Let's get him closed up and see if we can bring it up." Truth was, Dean had lost a tremendous amount of blood, and if they were monitoring everything they should be, his vitals would be even more frightening. But Bates needed Sam to concentrate. To finish the job. So he opted not to tell him just how hard his brother was fighting to stay alive.

Dr. Bates took the brush from Sam and exchanged it for sutures.

"Okay, then, we're in the home stretch," Dr. Bates said. "You need to sew him back up in layers. Obviously, from the inside out.

Sam was finally back in his element. Sutures he could do. Even if he was starting a couple of layers deeper than usual, he had stitched Dean up so many times, he could do it in his sleep.

For the first time since the surgery had started Sam felt like he was taking in enough air, not just the necessary bits to keep him standing. He was halfway through the first internal layer when he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. He blinked and went back to work, his hands steady, no instructions from Dr. Bates necessary.

And there it was again.

"Henry."

Sam looked up and saw Betty, her hands on Dean's shoulders, eyes wide as Dean's body shook underneath her fingertips.

"We're out of nitrous."

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NOW are you still with me? I know it's a cliffhanger…sorry…I couldn't resist. But be kind – this was such a hard chapter for me to write. PLEASE let me know what you think.


	9. Chapter 9

About those reviews – unbelievable. Thank you so much for every single one of them. Once again I've responded – once again alerts are sporadic. I hope you know how much I appreciate them.

a/n – Since I rewrote the last chapter, I had to rewrite the rest of the story, which meant more research. Hopefully my intent to be as accurate as possible will come through. In between all the gasping and the suffering. :-) Thanks for sticking with me this far – we're down to the wire, only one chapter left. Unless Sam develops sympathy appendicitis…don't even go there. Thanks to GS. She knows why.

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter Nine**

The implication of Betty's statement registered in Sam's brain in slow motion, as he was trying to figure out why Dean's arms were shaking, why Betty was removing the oxygen mask. By the time he realized what was happening, only seconds later, all hell broke loose.

Dean's movements became a constant. Weak, as if he was swimming against the tide, but enough to prevent Sam from finishing the sutures. From doing anything besides stare at his brother's body, mouth open.

"Shit!" Sam appreciated that Bates was a man of few words, but in this particular instance, he was hoping for something a little more helpful.

"Betty and Ellen, hold on to his upper body. Sam, hurry, finish the sutures." Dr. Bates had both hands on Dean's legs, struggling to keep him still.

"Wait. What?" Sam was trying to sort what was happening. "We're out of nitrous? Don't we have more?"

"That was the only canister at the clinic." Bates was having a hard time controlling Dean's movements. "Sam, there's no time for discussion. If he tears the stitches you've already done it's going to be worse. You have to finish. NOW."

Sam chose denial. "No. No. He can't be waking up. I can see inside. He's still open."

"Nitrous leaves the system fast, Sam. In a few minutes there won't be any left in him."

Sam forced himself to concentrate, to ignore the shaking in his hands, as he tried to continue. But then he heard it. The sound of Dean's voice as he fought against the pain.

"Nooooo. Stop." It was a strangled cry, a plea for help, breathless with every implication of torture. Impossible for Sam to deny.

The urge to run to Dean's side was overwhelming, and Sam couldn't take his eyes off his brother's face.

For a moment Sam was giddy, lightheaded with the knowledge that this latest turn of events was just one in a string of many. What else could he expect in a day filled tragedy and despair if not more of the same. What next? Maybe the generator would go out. Or maybe the house would be hit by lightning and catch on fire. The rain would stop, of course, the minute the house was on fire.

"Sam, you have to finish. The longer the incision is open the greater the chance for infection."

Sam looked from his brother to the doctor, and then at the incision. The delirious thoughts gone, he was still unable to fully grasp what was being asked of him. He was only halfway through the first layer. The first layer of delicate tissue protecting his brother's intestines.

"Hurry, Sam." Bates didn't have a lot of strength, and even in his weakened state Dean was more than he could handle, his legs twitching convulsively underneath the doctor's arthritic hands. Ash tried to help, but he found it impossible to keep the flashlight steady while trying to control Dean's movements.

Sam ignored the screaming in his ears and went back to the sutures, tying off one more stitch as Dean pressed his fists hard against the table, at the same time letting out an obscenity that reverberated around the room.

"Why is he talking? How is this possible?" Sam was in a panic, his hands shaking so badly he had to clasp them together to keep them still. "Is the other stuff you gave him out too?"

"No," Bates answered, looking at the IV line. "But it doesn't block out the pain. It's a sedative, a muscle relaxant, which is why he's still weak and not jumping off the table."

Dean's body jerked violently and Sam instinctively pressed a hand against his chest.

"You call this weak?"

"You have to finish, Sam. He won't remember any of this." Dr. Bates chose to ignore the fact that Sam had just contaminated himself by putting a hand on Dean's chest.

Sam took a shallow breath, all he could manage as he fought against the pressure building in his head. It had been hard enough to operate on his brother when he'd been unconscious. This was impossible.

"Sam." It was Ellen. "Let me finish. You take over for me."

Sam looked at her through a haze and handed her the needle, still attached to the thread, still attached to Dean.

"Betty, I need a pulse." The strain of the physical exertion was evident in the doctor's voice.

"I can't get to it." Betty was using all the strength in her own frail body to keep Dean's upper body still.

"Here, let me." Sam walked to the end of the table and took over for both Betty and Ellen, placing his own long arms on top of his brother's. Leaving bloody marks wherever his hands rested.

"Hurry, Ellen." It was hard to tell through the coke bottle glasses, but Sam could swear there was fear growing behind the doctor's eyes.

"Pulse is 107."

"Stop!" With a violent jerk Dean's eyes flew open, briefly, registering nothing. His breath shallow, he began moving his head from side to side, a passive movement at first, but gaining strength as the pain intensified. As he tried to get away from it.

"Shhh. It's okay. It's almost over." Sam looked at Ellen, his eyes imploring her to hurry.

Dean was breathless, sweat pouring down his face, and Sam could only imagine what it felt like to have the tissues inside your body pulled together by a needle and thread.

"Dean, it's okay. Relax. It's almost over." Sam wasn't sure his brother could hear him, but he leaned as close to him as possible and began to hum a medley of Metallica songs. A Winchester lullaby.

"Done with the first layer." Ellen's voice was steady as she painted more Betadine inside Dean before stitching the outer layer.

Sam kept humming, exerting more pressure against Dean's upper body when he began to fight again, when Ellen started the second set of sutures.

"Almost done," Sam whispered in between verses.

Dean's eyes were fully open now and their vacant stare sent a chill through Sam. The fact that he wouldn't remember this was a small consolation. It was everything else that had happened during the last 24 hours, the last 24 years, that had Sam worried.

"Saaaaaam!" Dean arched his back violently against the ambush and Sam felt like sinking into the floorboards, his heart pounding in his chest. He's lucid enough to call my name? Sam shook uncontrollably, finding it difficult to see straight. And yet, the pressure against his brother's body remained a constant.

"I've got you. It's okay. It's almost over." Sam's voice cracked with emotion as he bit back tears.

That's when he realized he was a part of Dean's arsenal. Along with the weapons, the holy water, the salt, along with the dry wit and the sarcasm, Sam was part of the armory Dean kept for protection. So even in a semi conscious state, Sam's name spilled out, its promise not necessarily to keep him safe, but to keep him sane. The awareness, and the pressure that came with it, was staggering.

"Betty?"

"125. BP's 70 over 45."

"Ellen." Dr. Bates didn't need to finish, the tension in his voice was clear.

"I know," she replied, calm, steady. "I'm going as fast as I can."

"Stop, please, stop." It was weak, the fire gone as the shaking waned, as Dean succumbed to the overwhelming pain.

Sam brought a hand to Dean's face, to wipe the tears, and regretted it instantly. His hands were covered in blood, and the sight of it on his brother's face made him gag.

Betty didn't miss the reaction and placed her own hand on Sam's arm, her 90 pound body allowing him to lean into her until the nausea passed.

"Please." It was so low only Sam heard it, and he wondered how deep his brother had to go, how far away, to survive the assault.

"Done." Ellen had tied off the last stitch and was painting generous amounts of Betadine on the incision, preparing the area to be bandaged.

As soon as he felt it was safe Dr. Bates released his hold on Dean's legs, the awkward fingers in his left hand jutting out stiffly as he tried to massage some life back into them.

"Betty," he said, his voice low with emotion. "Give Dean the last of the versed. It's right here on the table. That should keep him sedated for a while."

Betty nodded, feeling for a pulse one more time. "Pulse is 110. But his BP is still 70 over 45."

With the stabbing of the needle gone, with the incision closed, Dean settled against the table, eyelids fluttering until they fell.

Sam released his hold on Dean's arms and watched his brother sleep fitfully, his breath catching every few seconds. Every time the pain registered.

Without thinking, Sam took off his bloody gloves and grabbed a wash cloth from the card table, soaking it in the pot of water Ellen had used earlier for sterilizing the instruments.

With enormous compassion and care, Sam began wiping the blood off his brother's body. From his face, his arms, his chest. Slowly, methodically, working into a rhythm that dulled his senses, that distanced him from the carnage of the last hour and a half. In his own version of shock, Sam's brain protected him by turning itself off, preventing him from thought, from worry. For a moment, nothing existed besides him and his brother.

Ellen caught Sam out of the corner of her eye, just as she finished bandaging the incision, and bit her lip. An unconscious reaction to the weight she felt in her heart. She understood, from years of treating careless hunters, the meaning of pulse rates and blood pressure. It was a knowledge she didn't think Sam shared. And for that she was grateful. She caught Bates watching Sam and their eyes met briefly, the uncertainty of the situation, the sheer terror of what possibly lay ahead, left unsaid.

"Ash," Bates had regained his composure, his voice even. "Go and check your computer, see if anyone from the hospital has responded. If not, send out new messages to everyone. Give them my name, tell them what we've done, and that we need a medivac helicopter here urgently."

"What?" Sam was still cleaning his brother's body, still focused elsewhere, when he caught the tail end of the doctor's words.

Bates wasn't sure how much to say. How much Sam could handle. In the end deciding that some honesty was necessary.

"Dean's lost a lot of blood, Sam, which is why his blood pressure is so low. If it doesn't come up on its own soon he's going to need a transfusion." Dr. Bates paused, giving Sam an opportunity to process the information. "We've got nothing for the pain." He couldn't go any further. Didn't have the heart to continue with the litany of everything that was wrong, that could go wrong.

"What can we do in the meantime?"

"Henry." Betty was feeling Dean's pulse with one hand, his heartbeat with the other. "Ventricular tachycardia is setting in."

Dr. Bates was by Dean's side instantly, feeling his chest to confirm Betty's diagnosis.

"What does that mean?" Sam watched Dean's chest rise heavily, too quickly, his breathing labored.

"There's not enough blood flowing to his heart, so it's working overtime to compensate." Dr. Bates moved away from Dean to search through the supplies they had brought from the clinic, talking to Sam as he lifted bottle after bottle of medicine. "Tachycardia means rapid heart rate. Too rapid. Damn it!"

Dr. Bates set down the last medicine bottle and made his way back to Dean, his stride brisk.

"Betty, flashlight." As if she could read his mind, Betty had the flashlight trained on Dean's face before her husband finished asking.

Dr. Bates opened Dean's eyes, searching for movement, for anything that told him Dean was still there. Still with them. Satisfied, Bates stared into thin air for several seconds, deep in thought as he tried to figure out the best course of action.

"Betty, stop the versed drip."

"What?" Sam couldn't believe his ears. Wasn't that the only thing keeping his brother unconscious? The only way he could bear to look at him.

"We've got to bring his blood pressure up, Sam. The poor circulation is already affecting his heart." Bates looked at Sam, aware of the tenuous grip he had on his emotions, but he couldn't lie to him. "If it stays this low it's a matter of time before he goes into shock, which will shut down his brain and all his other organs."

"But what good will it do to take him off the drug? Won't he just suffer more?"

Dr. Bates was feeling Dean's neck for a pulse. "Betty, get me a temp reading. Lesser of two evils, Sam."

"What?" Sam still didn't understand. Why were they going to torture his brother?

Dr. Bates stopped his ministrations long enough to give Sam a better explanation. He had figured out that the brothers' strength derived from each other. If Sam faltered now, if he lost the unyielding faith that had gotten them this far, Dean didn't stand a chance.

"Sam, if we were in a hospital, he would be heavily sedated, and we would be giving him intravenous fluids to replenish a million things he lost during the surgery, not just blood but electrolytes, sodium, potassium, magnesium, calcium, that regulate bodily functions. He would have received a blood transfusion, and his blood pressure would be climbing." Dr. Bates paused, waiting for Sam to catch up.

"All we can try now are antiquated remedies that occasionally worked 50 years ago. And pray for the best."

"Antiquated? Occasionally?"

"During the war we used to give wounded soldiers salt water to bring up their blood pressure. It's what I'd like to try now. Actually, Ellen, do you have any Gatorade, or something similar?"

"Yeah, I do."

"That's even better. It's got some electrolytes already in the mix."

"But." Sam had seen Betty turn off the versed drip and kept looking over the doctor's shoulder for any sign that Dean was stirring. "Won't waking him right now be worse?"

"He's going to be in a lot of pain, Sam," Dr. Bates replied gently. "But he needs to be awake in order to drink the salt solution."

Sam clenched his jaw against the information and nodded, steeling himself for what was to come.

"Temperature's 104.1."

"Ellen, Betty, wipe him down with some wet wash cloths, try and get the fever down before he wakes up."

Too late. Dean was stirring, groaning lightly, before Sam could reach him.

"Hey."

Dean stared at his brother through eyes so clouded with pain Sam flinched.

"Talk to him, Sam," Bates whispered behind him. "It takes a while for the medication to wear off, and the low pressure will make him dizzy and disoriented, but we need him alert enough so he can drink, so he can swallow."

Sam nodded and looked at his brother again. He was pale, with deep, dark circles under his eyes. He took Dean's hand and squeezed it, his heart stopping when he got nothing in return.

"His hand is freezing," Sam said, certain it wasn't a good sign.

"That's because the arterioles are constricting." Dr. Bates replied, busy making the salt mixture.

"Henry!" Betty gave her husband an exasperated look. "As if Sam knows what an arteriole is."

"Sorry," he said. "The arterioles are small, muscular branches of arteries. They're trying to compensate for the low blood pressure by contracting, which increases resistance to blood flow, increasing the blood pressure in the arteries. The process makes the skin cold.

Sam had no idea what the doctor had just said, and turned to Betty. "Is it painful?" he whispered.

"It could be," Betty replied softly. "But it's probably the least of his problems right now."

"Can we get him a blanket at least?"

Ellen looked to Dr. Bates for approval.

"That's fine," he nodded. "Sam, speak to him. If he's too out of it to drink anything we can't help him."

"Hey." Sam was at a loss, unable to think of one meaningful thing he could say to his brother.

"Sa…m." And there it was. Dean was showing up for Sam, because Dean always knew when his little brother needed him to step up to the plate.

"Hey, man, how are you feeling?"

Dean was breathing in short gasps, and it took him a minute to answer. "Chest…hurts."

"That's the effect of the tachycardia," Betty whispered to Sam. Something about these brothers had touched her, and she felt a need to hover, to stand by just in case. "Put your hand on his chest, Sam, see if you can get him to breathe through the pain."

Dean felt Sam's familiar touch but couldn't connect it to the rest of him. Sam was a blur he could only focus on for seconds at a time, so he relied on memory to paint the picture of the brother he so desperately needed.

He couldn't remember what they'd been hunting, but by the way he felt he figured it was a nasty son of a bitch. His chest felt like it was caving in on him, more painful with every passing second.

"Try and take a deep breath, Dean."

"Did we…get it?"

It took Sam only an instant to realize that Dean was on a hunt.

"Sure did," Sam said gently. "You did. One shot. Perfect aim. Ugly bastard too."

"You…okay?"

Dying. His brother was dying and he wanted to know if he was okay.

"I'm fine."

"Dad…okay?"

Dean's breathing was ragged, and Sam looked to Betty for reassurance.

"Keep talking," she whispered.

"Dad's okay too."

"Thank…God." The words were spoken only in the exhale, the reverse irregular and painful, allowing nothing to escape.

"Deep breath, Dean."

Dean tried, for Sam, battling to stay conscious with the effort it took to breathe.

"Henry, we're losing him."

Dean was listless, going in and out of consciousness, and Dr. Bates tried to rouse him by gently slapping his cheeks.

"Stay with me, Dean, come on, open your eyes. Betty, vitals."

Dean's eyes fluttered and immediately rolled into the back of his head. Bates slapped him harder, causing Sam to jump in place.

"Pulse is 120. BP is 65 over 50."

Ellen was back with a blanket she was draping over Dean when Bates caught her eye.

"Ellen, do you have any ammonia?"

"Ammonia? You looking for smelling salts?"

"Yes. You have smelling salts?" Dr. Bates couldn't hide his surprise.

"I do," she said. "By the way, Ash hasn't received any response to his emails. He sent out new ones and is searching other avenues to try and get some help."

Sam watched in horror as Dr. Bates slapped Dean again. As his brother was forced to endure more agony, more misery than he thought humanly possible.

Dr. Bates held the smelling salts in front of Dean's nose until he gasped, his eyes opening slowly, his breath quickening when he saw the doctor. When he didn't see Sam.

"Sam," the doctor's voice had an urgency that made Sam shake. "The salt mixture's ready. Talk to him. We need his help."

"Hey, Dean, are you thirsty?"

Dean parted his lips and the words caught in his throat.

"Good," Sam said, pretending that was a yes. "I have something for you to drink."

Dean's chest was rising in tandem with his breaths, and Sam was afraid he was going to hyperventilate.

"Take it easy, man. Slow down."

"Chest…hurts…Sam."

Sam rubbed his eyes, finding it unbearable to watch his brother suffer any longer.

"Get him to drink as much as he can," Dr. Bates said, handing Sam a small plastic cup with a straw.

"Dean, I know you're thirsty. Here's that drink I promised." Sam was hoping the psychology would work as he tried to lift his brother's head.

"Let me,' Ellen said, going behind the table, out of Dean's view, and lifting his head. Dean groaned loudly, the slight movement putting pressure on his chest, on the incision, and Sam forced himself to ignore it.

"Here you go," Sam whispered, afraid that anything louder would hurt his brother. He put the straw in Dean's mouth and nothing happened. Dean couldn't close his mouth around it.

"Dean, I need you to drink this."

Dean looked at Sam, eyes pleading to be left alone.

"You've got to drink this, man. Just a little."

Dean moved his lips around the straw, his throat working as he tried to obey his brother. The mixture had the consistency of syrup, and made him gag as soon as it entered his mouth. The simple reflex sent another crushing blow to his body, but he didn't have the strength to scream in pain, only to shake, and whimper, and make that low humming sound Sam had been trying to forget for hours.

Sam looked at the doctor, not even trying to hide the tears.

"Try again."

"Hey, Dean. I know this stuff tastes awful, but you've got to get some in you, man. Come on."

The humming got louder.

Sam looked at Ellen, who was still cradling Dean's head. She had nothing to give him. Nothing to say that would make any of it better.

Sam put the straw in Dean's mouth and closed his lips around it, determination etched on his face.

"Dean." It was no longer a whisper. No longer gentle. "You need to drink this. And you need to drink it now. That's an order."

Ellen winced with the recollection. With the memories.

Dean stirred and the humming stopped.

The knowledge of what he was doing made Sam cringe. Nothing had bothered him more about his father than the way he talked to his sons. The way he bossed them around. And yet, in this very moment, he understood the man a little better. He had spent the last 20 years of his life running towards the thing that destroyed his future, while at the same time trying to make sure his sons had one. If they couldn't follow orders, how could he protect them?

Sam closed Dean's lips around the straw again.

"Now, Dean. Drink this now."

True to form, Dean followed orders, sucking on the straw and swallowing. At least he tried to swallow. But it was no use. What he could drink again made him gag, and as much as he wanted to do as he was told, he couldn't. The red liquid oozing out of his mouth and down his chin.

Sam nodded at Ellen and she gently lowered Dean's head.

Dean sounded like he was having an asthma attack, and Sam felt his own chest tighten as he wiped the liquid from his brother's mouth and chin.

"What now?" Sam asked, unable to face the doctor. To look away from his brother's eyes. What if he closes them and I never get to see in them again? Even unfocused and filled with pain, Sam was able to gain strength from Dean's eyes. From the way his brother saw him.

"Betty, start what's left of the versed."

"That's it? We're giving up?"

Dean was humming again, and Sam put a hand on his cheek.

"Hey, hang in there, okay."

Dean turned his face into the palm of Sam's hand and whispered something so low Sam couldn't hear it.

"What?"

Sam leaned closer.

"O…kay."

By the time Sam pulled back Dean's eyes were closed. But the humming continued.

"Pulse is 110. BP is 65 over 45."

"What's next? What do we do now?"

"Sam." What could he say? Your brother's dying? Pray?

"There has to be something else."

"He needs blood, Sam, to replenish what he lost."

"Okay." Sam was biting his nails, pacing the length of the banquet table. He looked from Bates, to Betty, to Ellen, their expressions blank.

Dean was humming.

"We have to get him out of here."

No one responded.

Sam looked outside, the rain wasn't letting up.

Dean was humming.

"Blood. He needs blood. We have to get blood."

No one responded.

Sam rubbed his hands through his hair, over his face.

The humming stopped. The quiet a deafening roar. A frantic screaming, pounding, beating inside Sam's head he couldn't bear.

Sam picked up a stool and threw it across the room, making a dent in the wall a foot deep.

Dr. Bates was scratching his head, deep in thought, oblivious to the bits of plaster falling on the floor. "Sam, do you know if you and Dean have the same blood type?"

Sam looked away from the wall, from the release he'd needed for hours. "I've given him blood before. Yes. We do."

"We could try that. If you're up to it."

Sam had given Dean blood once, right before he left for Stanford, after a hunt gone bad that left Dean in the hospital for two weeks.

"Doesn't my blood have to be processed, things added to it, before giving it to him?"

"Nowadays it does, because it's rarely transferred from the donor to the receiver quickly enough. But the first successful transfusions were done directly from donor to patient."

"Why didn't you suggest this right away?"

"It's risky. With some substantial complications."

"Like?"

"Once blood is out of your system, it coagulates fairly quickly."

"Coagulates?"

"It clots, making it unsafe to inject into someone else. We have no way of knowing if the blood we take from you, and inject into Dean, is clotting. All we can do is act fast, and hope it works."

"And if it doesn't?"

"A blood clot will kill him."

Sam looked at Dean, unconscious, his breath coming in short bursts as his heart worked to compensate for the low blood flow.

"This is it, isn't it?" Sam asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Short of getting out of here in the next hour, this is our only chance, right?"

Dr. Bates didn't miss the fact that Sam said, our only chance, not Dean's only chance. The implication being that if Dean died, Sam would too. Perhaps not physically, but Sam's soul would leave the minute his brother's did, the doctor was sure of it.

Bates nodded. "He was weak to begin with, Sam. The pain he suffered through all day took its toll, and we know his immune system is out of sorts. He's just not strong enough for the fight."

"Let's do it."

"There are other risks."

"I don't want to know what they are."

Dr. Bates turned to his wife. "I'm going to need you to do the extraction." Betty nodded.

"Ellen, have you ever administered an injection?"

"A few times."

"Good. You will need to inject Dean with Sam's blood. It has to be done slowly, or you risk an air embolism, but fast enough that the blood doesn't have time to clot."

"What's an air embolism?" Sam didn't like the sound of that.

"It's when air gets into the blood circulation. A bubble of gas can get lodged in the heart and…"

Sam put his hand up. He'd heard enough.

"Ellen," Dr. Bates continued, "I need you to boil some water, in a small pot so it doesn't take long, about five inches deep."

Dr. Bates busied himself looking for syringes in one of the boxes from the clinic. "Sam, I'd like to give him at least a pint of your blood to start with, it's what you would donate if you went to a blood bank. Is that okay?"

"Whatever he needs."

"Unfortunately, we don't have anything bigger than a standard syringe. I have to do the math, but we may have to poke you quite a few times."

Sam nodded. Could anything compare to the torture his brother was going through?

Right on cue, Dean began humming again, and Dr. Bates and Sam reached him simultaneously.

"Hey." Sam took Dean's hand in his and waited for a response.

But there was nothing, just the agonizing whimpers to remind him that his brother was in pain. Suffering through a fog of unimaginable proportions.

Dr. Bates was checking the IV bags, shaking one to make sure it was working properly.

"Please don't tell me we're out of versed."

Dr. Bates tapped on the tubing going into Dean's arm. "It's just a clog. But there isn't a lot left. We should hurry though. Every time we poke you we have to turn around and do the same thing to him."

"Can't we put the blood in an IV bag?" Ellen asked.

"It would enter into his bloodstream too slowly, increasing the chance of clotting."

Dean quieted down, but Sam could tell by his breathing that he was barely out.

"Water's ready," Ellen said.

"Good, just keep it boiling."

Bates found the box of syringes he was looking for. "40 cc," he mumbled. "Let's see, 30 cc is one fluid ounce, so 40 cc." Dr. Bates stopped talking and began calculating in his head. "Twelve," he said, startling Sam.

"Twelve what?"

"How many syringes we have to fill before we get to a pint."

Sam took a deep breath, the thought of it making him lightheaded. To his credit he said nothing as he took off the surgical gown he was wearing and rolled up his sleeve.

"Where do you want me?"

"Ellen, can you bring in one of the chairs that was in here?"

Ellen was back a few seconds later with a high backed chair Dr. Bates positioned in the middle of the kitchen.

"All right, Sam, you sit here." Dr. Bates had lined up the 12 syringes on the counter, and Sam tried to ignore them.

Betty tied a thick rubber band on Sam's right arm and looked for a vein, happy to see he had good veins that were easy to find. She only hoped they would last through the 12 extractions.

Sam took a deep breath and held it when the first needle went in, deciding right away not to look.

When the syringe was filled with blood Betty took it out and handed it to her husband, who immediately dipped the needle in the boiling water. Handing it back to Betty, she rubbed it with alcohol and squeezed out a tiny bit of blood, hoping to get rid of any trapped air bubbles. Ellen took the syringe while Betty tied another rubber band on Dean's right arm, getting him ready for the transfusion.

"Come on, Dean," Betty whispered, tapping his arm as she searched for a vein.

"What's the matter?" Ellen asked.

"Without his blood flowing properly his veins have shrunk. Here, here's a good one." Betty tapped Dean's arm once more for emphasis.

"All right, Ellen," Bates said, practically breathing down her neck. In the years since the arthritis had kicked in, he had never cursed it as much as he had in the last few hours. The frustration at not being able to properly take care of Dean himself was maddening.

Ellen waited while Betty rubbed more alcohol on Dean's arm, then began, having trouble finding the vein, finally getting the needle in on the third try.

Dean moved his head to the side with the prick of the needle.

"Slowly, that's it, perfect." Bates hovered while Ellen worked, counting in his head as he watched the blood disappear. "Excellent. Betty, how are you doing over there?"

"Here," Betty said, handing her husband another filled syringe.

By the third time, it was nearly impossible to find a vein in Dean's right arm, taking Ellen five attempts before successfully injecting the blood. Dr. Bates was monitoring Dean closely, and it was obvious he could feel every stab of the needle.

With the IV in the left arm, Dr. Bates had Ellen begin using the veins in Dean's left hand.

Two extractions later, and Sam's own arm gave out as he let out an involuntary cry when the sixth needle couldn't find anything.

"Sorry," Betty said gently.

Sam rolled up his other sleeve and said nothing.

Dean's hands were good for two injections each, and while the doctor pondered the location of other veins, he took a wet wash cloth and began rubbing Dean's chest with it. An attempt to break the fever and soothe the anxiety that was just underneath the surface. That was causing him to twitch and gasp every few minutes.

From Sam's vantage point he could see Dean's chest rising, could hear the muffled breaths, and he was finding it difficult to stay where he was. Twice he had tried to stand up, to go to him, and both times Betty had held firm, insisting he stay put until they were finished. Until he'd gotten something in his stomach to keep him from passing out.

"I'm afraid we have to go to the inner thigh," Dr. Bates said. "There are some good veins there.

Sam cringed at the thought, but kept his mouth shut.

Betty pulled the covers off of Dean's right leg and together with Ellen searched for yet another vein. By the time they found one Dean was not happy, and Dr. Bates had to place a firm hand on his forehead to keep him still.

"Is he awake?" Sam asked, forbidden by Betty to move.

"No," Bates answered. "But it's not the most pleasant place to get an injection."

With the tenth injection, while working on the left thigh, Ellen hit a nerve, causing Dean to throw his head back as he cried in agony.

Sam was on his feet and by his side in two steps, his hands barely reaching the table as the room began to spin, as his brother became a blur.

"Sam!" With remarkable agility Dr. Bates grabbed the chair from the middle of the room and shoved it behind him, arriving just as Sam fell into it.

"Get your head down, Sam, come on, between your legs."

The doctor's voice was a distant drawl, and Sam couldn't make out what he was saying, he was trying so hard to stay conscious. He felt someone pushing his head down, and he had no resistance, nothing in him for the fight.

"Breathe, Sam. Come on, take a deep breath."

Sam started to sway, the floor moving beneath him, and he closed his eyes. Big mistake. He opened them again. He felt a hand on his neck, pushing him down again, holding him steady.

Sam was in a cold sweat as he fought the dizziness, as he fought for the control he needed to help his brother. His head in his hands, he tried to look up, but gave up when he thought he was going to fall over.

"Doc."

"Yes."

"Don't stop if I…pass out. Get the rest of it…Okay?"

"No problem, Sam."

Instinctively, Sam put his hand out until he could feel his brother's arm, wrapping his fingers around it as he tried to regain his balance.

Dr. Bates watched in amazement as both brothers were able to settle themselves, to calm down, with the connection.

"Doc," Sam said, his head still between his legs.

"Yes."

"We've got two more to go." Sam stretched out his other arm.

"We need to get your blood sugar up first."

"No, do that…later."

Ellen was done with injection number 10, the only one she had been able to administer without Dean stirring. The only one he had received while Sam was holding on to him.

Ellen poured Sam a glass of Gatorade and added two tablespoons of sugar.

"Hey, Sam, can you sit up and drink this?"

Sam pulled his head up slowly, ignoring the walls that were closing in on him. He took the glass from Ellen, but she had to take it right back, his hands were shaking so hard.

"Let's try a straw."

Sam drank the sweet mixture while Ellen held the glass, feeling slightly better by the time he was done.

"Let's go," he said to Betty. "Let's do the last two."

Betty looked to her husband, who nodded. This was Dean's last chance. He was certain Sam would recover.

Sam refused to budge from where he was, from his position holding Dean's arm, and Betty worked from there.

Fifteen minutes later they were done.

Betty was monitoring Dean's vitals when Sam noticed the IV bag holding the versed was almost empty.

"How's he doing?" he asked, his voice still shaky.

"His blood pressure is up a little, 75 over 55. His pulse rate is at 102. Better. He's actually doing better." Betty offered Sam a smile that he had a hard time returning.

"I, I'm going outside for a minute," he said, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

"Sam, it's pouring. You just gave a pint of blood." Ellen's maternal instincts had been put to the test all day, and in this moment she wanted nothing more than to take care of Sam. The way he had been taking care of his brother. The way his own mother would if she was there.

"I, I have to go outside." Sam could barely get the words out.

Ellen nodded. She understood. He didn't have a mother. Only a brother was left that could take care of him. And he was on the verge of losing him too.

Sam was out the back door, out of the house that had suddenly become stifling, before Ellen could reply.

If it was possible, the rain was falling harder than before, its intensity a welcome relief against Sam's body. He stood there, in the rain, for long minutes, almost in a meditative state, no thoughts coming in or out, nothing to disturb the wet and the cold surrounding him.

Eventually, the bitter cold brought him back, brought the memories back until they filled his head, his body. Until his nostrils ached from the stench of skin and fluid and antiseptic. Until his hands twitched under the strain of scalpels and scissors and sutures. Until his throat gagged compulsively at the sight of blood squirting in every direction. Until he couldn't stand on his own two feet, his knees buckling, his body giving way as he crouched against a wall, his insides pouring out of him convulsively.

With nothing left inside, Sam slid the rest of the way onto the ground, curiously watching the vomit as it was swept away by the rain. He shuddered against the cold, grateful for the numbness, and pulled his knees up, his hands wrapped around them, his head lowered against them. And he cried.

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PLEASE let me know your thoughts. Let me know you're still there. I'd love to hear your comments.


	10. Chapter 10

Once again I am humbled by your reviews. They have meant so much to me, and have inspired me to write a better story than I started out with. Thank you.

a/n – If I thought the surgery chapter was hard, this one was agonizing. The previous two chapters ended up being grittier than I had anticipated, and I got to this chapter a little intimidated by the prospect of wrapping up the story along the same lines. When I put myself in Dr. Bates' shoes, I realized he would do whatever it took to save Dean, and that meant leaving my comfort zone and stretching as a writer. Terrifying, but probably good for me. So be warned, if you're a little squeamish, parts of this chapter might make you uncomfortable.

I set out to write the story I wanted to see unfold, the story of the brothers communicating after their father's death, because I didn't have the patience to wait for it to happen on the show. I hope I've accomplished that, and I thank you for indulging me. As it turns out, I ended up taking as long as the show did anyway. :-)

Thanks to Kripke and company for these wonderful three-dimensional characters I've had the pleasure of playing with.

Thanks to GS – because it's all her fault, and to SC in the ER – for the invaluable guidance.

Very long chapter ahead.

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_It's a long, long road  
From which there is no return  
While we're on the way to there  
Why not share  
And the load  
Doesn't weigh me down at all  
He ain't heavy, he's my brother_

The Hollies

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Chapter 10**

His body frozen, his brain processing the bare minimum, Sam sat in the same position for nearly half an hour, looking up only when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," Ellen was holding an umbrella, trying to shield them both, and failing.

"Is something wrong? Is he okay?"

"He's restless," Ellen said, trying to ignore the red around Sam's eyes.

"Is he awake?" Sam started to get up; he didn't want his brother awake without him in the room.

Ellen put her hand out to stop him, afraid of what would happen if he stood up too quickly. "No, he's still out. It's just a light sleep that's all. He doesn't know you're not there," she added.

Sam nodded. At least he thought he nodded. He was certain his body was frozen solid; he could feel nothing beyond his eyelids blinking against the rain.

"Why don't you come inside?"

"How's his…blood pressure?" Sam's thoughts were muddled, he was so cold. "Did the transfusion work?"

"Seems to be working. Pressure's up." Ellen was tugging on his shoulder. "Come on, Sam, you're beyond soaked."

Sam looked down at himself, as if noticing for the first time that he was wet.

"Let me help you." Ellen fought the urge to kneel and throw her arms around him, to protect him any way she could. His eyes were distant, not fully present, and she wondered if he was in shock.

Sam looked at her, for an instant his eyes betraying his resolve, letting her see the pain and the anguish he couldn't shake. But then it was gone, replaced by the steely gaze of the hunter his father had perfected. The same one his brother tortured him with daily.

The look was eerie, and Ellen wondered if it was a Winchester trademark.

Sam stood, slowly, his brain and his body on different frequencies.

"Sam, you did good in there." Ellen had him by the elbow, afraid to let go of him.

Sam had no response. No movement, no tip of the head, nothing that acknowledged she was even there.

"He can't die." It was a prayer. Directed at no one. Directed at God. At the universe, at the rain and the trees and everything that held life and was close and he could feel. It was a plea. For sanity, for peace, for him, for his brother, for everyone he had ever loved and lost.

They had reached the back door and Sam braced himself for the warmth of the kitchen, the sight of his brother bandaged and unconscious, unable to shelter him from his own pain, his own fears. Sam hated how much he relied on his brother for his survival, how much he needed him, and shoved open the door with his fist, the painful connection clearing his mind.

Dean's motionless body instantly brought back feelings of despair and anguish, of love and hate, of hope and triumph, a sordid mess Sam tried to sort by reaching for his brother, for any part of him that he could connect to.

His brother's hand was warm, and his forehead even warmer, and Sam held his place, letting Dean's fever elevate his own body temperature.

"You all right, Sam?" Dr. Bates was checking Dean's IV line, making sure every drop of versed was used.

"I'm fine," Sam answered, absently watching the water dripping from his clothes. "How is he?"

"Blood pressure's up. Not great but much better. He doesn't need to work as hard."

Sam noticed Dean's breathing was steadier, not as labored. "Does he need more blood?"

"Possibly. But let's wait and see. I don't want to push our luck." Dr. Bates was listening to Dean's stomach with the stethoscope.

"What else is going on?"

"There's some distension in his stomach, which could mean several things," Dr. Bates continued. "An obstruction, intestinal paralysis, an infection. Could just be a result of the surgery and mean nothing."

"How do we know?" Sam shook, his teeth chattering, from the cold, from the information he couldn't process.

"We need an x-ray and a CT scan to be sure, but under the circumstances we wait. See if other symptoms manifest."

Sam opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out, only a short breath that caught between his teeth.

"Sam," Ellen had a hand on his arm. "You have to get out of those clothes."

Sam nodded. "How long…before he…wakes up?" The chattering was incessant.

"We found a little more versed. My guess is 20 – 30 minutes tops."

"I think I'll take…a quick shower…if that's okay." Sam felt battered, bruised, as if he'd been in a scuffle with a wendigo, and hoped a shower would resuscitate him. Revitalize him for what he feared would be agonizing hours ahead.

"Great idea." Ellen was practically pushing him out of the room. "Let me show you where everything is."

Forcing himself to move quickly, Sam didn't bother turning on the cold water as he stood in the shower, the hot water burning his skin for several minutes. He was suffering from a bad case of survivor's guilt, and was grateful for the pain. A punishment of sorts for avoiding the demon's wrath. For surviving the car accident with nothing but a few scratches. For having a healthy appendix.

As soon as he stepped in the kitchen Sam realized Dean was awake. Betty was taking his pulse while Ellen tried to calm him down. Sam didn't skip a beat, and in two long strides was at his brother's side, taking his hand.

"It's about time."

Dean's eyes shot to Sam, the tension in his body releasing immediately.

"How do you feel?" Sam was afraid to ask. Deep, painful lines creased Dean's face, casting dark shadows under his eyes.

"Did you…do it?" It was a low whisper, and Sam had to lean forward to catch the tail end of the question.

"We did. You are now the proud owner of an appendix in a jar. You wanna see it?"

Dean's eyes widened and Sam laughed.

"Ruptured?" So he had been paying attention. It didn't surprise Sam that Dean had gone into the surgery fully aware of everything that was going on. And had probably not let on for his sake.

"About to, but we got it just in time. You're a lucky bastard."

Dean closed his eyes at a sharp intake of breath, letting it out slowly a few seconds later. Sam waited it out, could feel the pain dissipating through his hand.

"You okay?"

"Thirsty."

"Hey, Doc, can he have some water?"

Dr. Bates had been hovering nearby, feeling incredibly helpless. Water. Such a simple request, but laced with so much uncertainty. He had a running list in his head of everything Dean needed that he wasn't getting, and hydration through an IV was near the top. But if Dean did have an intestinal obstruction, or paralysis, anything by mouth could potentially make it worse.

"Doc? Water?" Sam was anxious.

"A couple of sips, Sam. We need to see if he can tolerate it."

Attempting to drink the water was excruciating, and after a few sips Dean gave up, unable to cope with the pain the simple movement caused.

Dean shut his eyes tightly and turned his head away. Away from the concerned stares of strangers, from the pain. From Sam.

"Take it easy, man, it's okay. Just breathe."

Dean tried to listen to Sam, but suddenly felt so nauseous breathing stopped altogether, replaced by the gagging, choking sounds of his body trying to expel what little water he'd just had.

Sam watched in horror as the water trickled out of his brother's mouth. As Dean gagged helplessly, the movement making his body spasm.

"Sam, we have to get him on his side."

"What?"

"If he starts to throw up in earnest he doesn't have the strength to turn on his own. He could aspirate. Inhale his own vomit."

Dean gagged again and Sam felt the sense of urgency drown his fear.

"I'm going to turn you, okay?" Sam didn't wait for a response, for anything that might take the nerve away, and gently, with Ellen's help, rolled Dean onto his left side.

Dean held himself rigid, waiting for the pain to subside. In his stomach, his chest, his head. In his arm with stitches that were barely hours old. And then it happened again. He gagged. Again and again, until he was shaking, in a cold sweat, his insides unable to release anything.

Sam pulled up the one chair in the room and sat directly in front of Dean, bending down to make eye contact as he placed a wet wash cloth on the back of his neck. "Hang on, okay. This will pass."

Dean nodded. Terrified by the look in Sam's eyes. He had never seen that look before. Not in the cabin, when Sam was facing off with the demon, not in the hospital when their father died. Not even in Palo Alto. He had to get himself together. Had to protect Sam. But he couldn't stop gagging. Couldn't stop his insides from burning. Couldn't keep Sam in focus long enough to reassure him of anything.

At the doctor's request Ellen brought out a pillow that Sam gently placed under Dean's head, and Dean found himself once again fighting to keep Sam in focus.

"Hey, Doc, isn't there anything you can give him?"

"Nothing injectable," Bates sighed. "He can't tolerate anything else right now."

Dr. Bates made his way to Dean and put a hand on his shoulder. "Dean," he said. "I'm going to listen to your stomach with the stethoscope, okay. You don't have to move. I can do it while you're on your side."

"Okay." Dean was trying to stay conscious. For Sam.

The doctor listened intently, readjusting his hearing aid several times, until he was satisfied. After a minute he placed his good hand on Dean's stomach and moved it in a circular motion.

"Dean." Dr. Bates was pressing lightly on Dean's stomach. "Besides the burning sensation you can feel throughout your abdomen, especially in the area of the incision, can you tell if there's something else? Something deeper. More like cramping."

"No…I don't know. It just hurts." Dean was cold to the touch, and the words were low and hard to hear.

Sam looked up at the doctor, waiting for an explanation.

"There's no movement, no bowel sounds," Dr. Bates whispered, certain Dean could hear him. Equally certain Sam wouldn't walk away from him to have a private conversation.

"What does that mean?"

Dr. Bates rubbed his chin while he spoke. "The nausea could simply be a result of the anesthetic, but the distended stomach, the lack of any muscular contractions in the abdomen," he paused and shook his head. "My guess is paralytic ileus, but without the proper diagnostic equipment I can't tell for sure."

Sam's eyes widened as he leaned forward.

"It means the intestinal wall has ceased working."

"Why? How?"

"Decreased electrolytes can cause it, peritonitis, but I don't think that's it. There was no rupture or infection when we opened him up. Most likely there was trauma to the nerves supplying the gut wall. It's probably related to the leaky blood vessel."

"Pulse is 85," Betty interrupted. "BP is 85 over 65. Temp is 103.8."

Dean gasped, his hand on his mouth as he convulsed and began to shake. His other hand against his stomach in a vain attempt to control the spasms.

"It's all right, Dean, it's all right. Breathe through it." Dr. Bates put his hand on Dean's neck, rubbing it gently until he calmed down. "Did that feel more like a cramp?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah."

For several minutes there was no activity, no movement, no sound in the kitchen besides the wind and the rain against the windows, besides the low breathless sounds of Dean living through the pain. It was a collective calm of anticipation, of trepidation. Of prayer and hope.

Until Dean broke the silence, his head banging helplessly against the pillow, his hand searching for Sam as he dry heaved into thin air.

Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder, his other hand against Dean's back as he rubbed mindlessly, feelings of helplessness again threatening to consume him. "Take it easy," he whispered, his eyes searching the doctor for answers.

Dr. Bates was deep in thought, torn by every scenario that came to him. Experience told him there was nothing else he could do. Only his heart was preventing him from giving up.

"Sam, I've got an idea." Bates was hesitant, thinking as he spoke, and Sam didn't miss the uncertainty.

"You don't sound very convinced."

"I'm not," he said honestly. "But we're running out of options." Bates tried to organize his thoughts before saying anything else. "But this might work."

"Might?" Sam was whispering. He had noticed Dean's eyes were closed and he was hoping he was asleep.

"Here's the thing," Bates continued. "The pain from the surgery alone is bad enough, but you throw in the convulsions from the nausea, the associated cramping, the high fever, and it becomes excruciating. Untreated extreme pain will make him highly susceptible to shock. I believe the nausea, and the cramping, is being caused by the paralyzed intestinal wall. If we can regain motility we can alleviate those symptoms."

"And how do we do that?"

"The way to get the wall moving again is to put a tube down his nose and into his stomach and suction."

Sam winced at the thought.

"But we don't have the necessary equipment to do that," Bates added. "My only suggestion…" He hesitated again, uncertainty gripping his every move.

"What is it?" Sam was still rubbing Dean's back, still watching him sleep.

"This is a last resort, because it runs the risk of rupturing the bowel." Dr. Bates ignored Sam's expression and continued. "I suggest we try a low volume, warm enema to stimulate the abdominal wall."

"Fuck no!"

Sam turned to Dean. "I thought you were sleeping?"

"Trying to." Dean winced with the pain speaking caused. "No fucking way, Sam."

"Dean."

"No!" The exertion brought with it more pain, and Dean pushed Sam away as he slammed his fist into the table, head buried into the pillow.

Sam looked at Dr. Bates. "And if we don't do it?"

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe it's not an ileus and the intestine will start working again on its own."

"And if it doesn't?"

"The pain will get worse. And we have nothing to give him. He had an allergic reaction to the Demerol, and everything else we have is in pill form, which he can't tolerate. Paralytic ileus isn't life threatening," he added. "Unless it's left untreated."

"Hey, Dean."

"No." Dean's voice was muffled against the pillow.

"Let's talk about this."

"Nothing to… talk about."

"You're delirious, man. This could help you."

Dean clenched his teeth and forced himself to turn his head. The look in his eyes pure agony as he tried to get across to his brother the sheer terror he was feeling.

Sam reached for his mouth, the urge to throw up catching him off guard. Dean instinctively reached for his brother, forgetting his own pain while he tried to alleviate Sam's.

"Hey," Dean whispered.

"I'm okay," Sam said, feeling foolish. "It's just, I mean…I know you're scared, but this could help."

"It's unnatural, Sam."

"It's medicine."

"We're in a…kitchen." Dean gasped, releasing his hold on Sam's arm.

Sam took Dean's hand, feeling lost, unbalanced, without the connection.

"You let me take out your appendix in this kitchen."

"That was…different."

"How?"

"I was asleep."

If you only knew, Sam thought. "Dean, people get these things every day."

"Not…me," Dean gasped, and squeezed the hell out of Sam's hand.

Dean," Dr. Bates interrupted. "I'm going to feel your stomach, okay. Try to be still for a minute." Bates didn't like the sound of Dean's breathing, or the twitching that came with every move.

Sure enough, Dean's stomach was painfully distended and rigid, and Bates knew something had to be done fairly quickly.

Dr. Bates looked at Sam and shook his head, hoping the lanky kid with nerves of steel had learned to read him in the last few hours.

"Dean," Sam began. "I know this is scary. But you have to trust me." Sam was practically whispering in Dean's ear. This was between him and his brother. "I can barely hold on, man. Watching you suffer like this is killing me. But if something happens to you." Sam stopped. He knew it was a low blow, but he had run out of options. The truth was the only thing left.

"I…can't."

"You don't want to."

"Same thing."

Dean closed his eyes. Against the pain. Against the fear. Against the overwhelming need to protect his brother above all else.

"Dean." Sam couldn't let go, his voice fraught with emotion. "You got me through Jess. Hell, you got me out of the house after mom."

"It was…an order."

Sam couldn't believe what he was about to say. "You've always protected me. How can you stop now? How can you give up?"

"I'm not…giving up." Dean gagged again, and quickly tried to straighten his body when he felt the movement pull on the incision.

"Dean?"

"God, Sam. I'd rather get stabbed by a zombie."

"Is that a yes?"

Dean closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, the nod almost imperceptible.

Within a few minutes Dr. Bates was ready, having started the concoction before Dean gave his consent. When he approached the brothers his demeanor was somber.

"All right," he said. "This is what's called an M&M enema."

"You've got to be kidding me."

Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the irony.

"It was popular in the fifties after surgery. It stands for milk and molasses, blackstrap molasses. Equal parts of each."

"Doc, really." Dean gagged again and Dr. Bates apologized.

"Betty's going to do the procedure while I massage your stomach. The liquid is heated, so you will feel a warm sensation, but not hot. Dean, are you listening, this is very important."

"All ears."

"You will feel some cramping, which is normal, but if at any time you feel full, like you can't take anymore, you have to speak up immediately. You got that?"

"Uh-huh."

Sam noticed Ellen standing a few feet away, helpless and uncomfortable.

"Hey, Ellen, do you mind…"

"God, no," she said, relief written all over her face. "I'm going to see what Ash is up to. Last time I checked he was emailing all the fire stations within a hundred mile radius."

Ellen disappeared and Sam turned to his brother, right away noticing a new sheen of sweat on his face.

"Hey."

"Hmm." Dean was elsewhere, the only way he could cope with what was about to happen.

"Dean." It was Bates again. "I need you to move to the edge of the table. Can you do that or do you need help?"

Dean didn't answer, but began the arduous process of moving on his own.

"Can I help? Sam asked, a hand on his shoulder.

"I…got it."

"Good, Dean, that's good. Right there. Now, this is going to be a little uncomfortable. Sam, I need you to bring his knees up, as close to his chest as he'll let you."

Sam did as he was told, forcing himself to look away from his brother. Stopping only when Dean groaned.

"Okay, Dean, how are you doing?"

"Swell."

Betty positioned herself behind Dean, the card table with a bowl to catch the liquid right beside her. Dr. Bates leaned his round body across the table, his good hand over Dean's legs and on his abdomen.

"Dean," he said. "You have to relax."

"You relax."

Dean was pale, and he was shaking, his nerves getting progressively worse as Dr. Bates began to massage his stomach.

"Dean, honey, if you don't relax this is going to be really painful." Betty was getting resistance with everything she tried.

Sam couldn't face his brother. He got him to agree to this. He had to get him through it. But he was terrified. What if it didn't work? What if it made things worse? What if something ruptured?

"Dean, relax." Dr. Bates was making circular motions on Dean's stomach, looking at Sam, urging him to do something. To help his brother.

Sam shook himself out of his stupor and forced himself to look at Dean. To see beyond the fear that had a grip on both of them.

"Hey, Dean, remember that time we were on a hunt with dad. I must have been eight or nine."

Dean's eyes were wide as he searched for Sam's hand, grabbing it and holding it tightly against his own when he felt Betty begin.

"Dad was really pissed because I had spilled salt all over the back seat."

Dean held his breath against the pressure, his lips pressed together, his eyes shut.

"I must have spilled a five pound bag. I don't even remember how. But dad was yelling up a storm."

Overcome by unrelenting anxiety, Dean took short, quick gasps of air while Sam put his free hand on his head, working his brother's short hair into his fingers against the panic.

"You turned to look at me. You were sitting in the front seat. You were always in the front seat. You rolled your eyes at me. I thought Dad was going to kill me. I think you did too."

Dean tore into Sam's hand, grabbing chunks of his sleeve as he worked his way up Sam's arm. His breathing rough as he fought against the unfamiliar sensation.

"Dad kept saying he was going to miss his chance, and there was nowhere to get salt before daylight."

Dean clawed his way to Sam's shoulder, pulling his brother down with the sheer strength that came from fear and pain bordering on panic.

"I was so scared I started to cry. Quietly, because if Dad knew he'd yell even louder. And you climbed into the back seat."

Dean pushed his fist into Sam's back, practically lifting himself off the table, grunting with the effort it took to stay in control, and Sam pushed him back down, taking his hand and holding it, all the while maintaining gentle pressure on his head.

"And for the next hour you helped me pick up every grain of salt, every last one, until the bag was almost full again. Until Dad stopped yelling."

Dean was spent, trembling, soaked in his own sweat as he reached a point he couldn't bear.

"Stop," he pleaded.

"Do you feel full?" Dr. Bates continued massaging his stomach. Betty stopped and waited for instructions.

"Cramping."

"Can you hold it for a minute?"

Dean didn't answer and Sam thought he had passed out.

"Dean?"

"Do I…have to?"

"Only if you can. You've done great. If you can hold it for a minute that would be better."

Dean let go of Sam's hand, too exhausted to hold on, and braced himself for the seconds to pass.

Sam put an arm around his brother, an attempt to provide warmth, for both of them. And counted the seconds with him.

"All right, Dean, that's it. You can relax."

Dean shuddered involuntarily at the release, against the pressure of the doctor's hand on his abdomen, against the cold sweat he couldn't help. And Sam continued to hold him. Until the shaking stopped. Until his breathing was even.

"How do you feel?" Dr. Bates was pushing his legs down, away from his chest, so he could listen to his stomach.

"Hmm."

Bates didn't expect an answer, just wanted to make sure Dean was still conscious.

He took the stethoscope and listened. The fact that Dean wasn't writhing in agony was a good sign that nothing had ruptured. After a minute he heard it, the low gurgling sounds of the intestinal wall, of the bowel. The procedure had gotten things moving again, and he couldn't help the smile that crossed his face as he looked at Sam.

Sam didn't skip a beat. "Hey, Dean, it worked."

"Whatever." Dean was exhausted from the resistance his nerves had generated, from the fever, from the surgery. And he was pissed as all hell at what they had just done to him.

"Pulse is 79. BP is 85 over 65. Temperature's 103.5."

"Dean, how's the nausea?" Dr. Bates was feeling Dean's stomach, could already see the distention receding.

"Fine…I guess."

"We're going to get you on your back then, okay. It'll alleviate some of the pain on the incision, as well as take the pressure off your arm and those stitches."

Dr. Bates couldn't help worry about the pain, and he marveled at Dean's inner strength. Anyone else would be screaming in agony, or unconscious from the misery. But he knew it was only a matter of time before the pain would overwhelm his senses, weaken his organs beyond repair, and he prayed that help would arrive before then.

He noticed Dean shivering and brought the blanket up to his chest, feeling his forehead with the back of his hand. "Hang in there, okay. I'm sure help will arrive any minute."

Dean brought his eyes up to the doctor and swallowed. "Thirsty," he whispered.

Dr. Bates grimaced at the request. "It's too soon," he said, his hand still on Dean's forehead. "You may not be able to keep it down, and we need your insides to rest a little."

Dean licked his lips in response, his glassy eyes searching the doctor's face for relief.

Dr. Bates moved his hand down to Dean's cheek, holding it in place while he got his bearings. While he got past the crushing feelings of failure. "Let's try some ice chips," he conceded. "See how you do with those."

Dr. Bates went to the refrigerator and Sam took over, taking Dean's hand for the fiftieth time that day.

"Hey."

"What?" Dean was weak, but he managed to pull his hand away.

"Thanks for um, you know."

"For letting some decrepit old woman…stick a tube up my ass?"

Sam laughed and looked around nervously, suddenly grateful that Dean could barely speak above a whisper.

"For letting her save your life," Sam added.

"Not sure it was worth it."

"I owe you."

"Next time there's an…enema up for grabs…it's yours."

"Deal."

"By the way…you were…12."

"What?"

"When you spilled the salt…all over the back seat."

"I was?"

"Yeah, big, chubby kid, blubbering about…salt."

Dean shut his eyes against the pain and turned his head. The conversation more than he could handle. He was so tired of hurting. Of being weak. Of being looked after and tended to.

"How are we doing?" Sam turned to see Ellen, followed by Ash.

"Better," Sam said. "His insides are moving again. Ash, any luck?"

"Not yet," he said. "But I've emailed everyone at the hospital again, every firehouse in the area, every city and county office. I've sent over 50 emails."

"All right, Sam," Dr. Bates said, handing him a small bowl. "Here are some ice chips. It's not much, but let's see if they help."

"Hey, Dean, how about an ice chip?"

Dean turned to face Sam, his movements slow as the pain and the fever continued to wear him down. He was so thirsty. He wanted a bucket of water, not a damn ice chip. But he opened his mouth anyway, grateful for whatever he could get.

The ice felt good on his chapped lips, in his mouth, down his throat, and his body begged for more. He held his mouth open in anticipation, waiting for Sam to give him another one. And again he couldn't get enough, his tongue licking his lips as his body craved hydration.

"Sorry, man, that's it. Hey, Doc, can he have more?"

Dr. Bates placed a hand under the blanket and felt Dean's stomach, happy most of the distension was gone, but not comfortable with giving Dean any more water.

"Sorry, Dean. Let's wait a few minutes and see how your body reacts to what you've had."

The disappointment was jarring, and Dean felt unwelcome tears stinging his eyes. His throat aching for water. His insides on fire.

Dean looked around the room, as far as his eyes would take him, trying to distract himself from the burning sensation across his stomach.

_Where the hell did Ellen find that wallpaper with the roosters on it? If I bite my lower lip really hard, will I forget the fire? Didn't think so._

"Dean?"

_Not now, Sam, I can't talk right now. Why are you wiping my mouth? I'm so thirsty. Can't you see I'm on fire?_

"Hey."

_God, Sam, you can be such a girl. Always wanting to talk. Don't you know that sometimes silence is the only way to go?_ _Maybe if I press my fists into the table really hard the pain will go away._

"What's wrong with him?"

_Honestly dude, if I could get a word out right now it would be shut the fuck up. Okay, so it's more than one word. Why am I so out of breath? I feel like I just ran a marathon._

"He's going into shock."

_Who said that? Oh no, it's Rip Van Winkle. Where the hell did Sam find this guy? You really think that lifting my legs is going to help? A bullet right through my head, that would help. Why are you taking my pillow?_

"Dean?"

_What are you doing? Oh God, please get your hand off my face. Honestly, Sam, haven't you heard of personal space? _

"Pulse is 105 and thready."

_Now what?_

"Please, Dean, don't do this."

_Come on, Sammy, just leave me alone for a while. We can talk later. Right now I just need to put out the fire. Let go of my hand, Sammy. Let me go._

"Pulse is 110."

_Hey grandma, can't you see I'm having a conversation with my brother?_

"Damn it, Dean, stop."

_You are so demanding. I am so cold. How can that be when there's a fire in my belly? Nice trick, Sammy, I can see two of you. I'm just going to close my eyes for a while, okay?_

"115."

_Jesus lady, can you shut up! Why is everyone talking at once? SHUT UP! GO AWAY!_

"He's shutting down."

_Why the fuck are you flashing a light in my eyes?_

"Come on, Dean, fight this."

_Son of a bitch, you did not just slap me._

"Please, Dean. I can't do this alone."

_Thank God you're back, Sammy. Please get that quack away from me. _

"Dean, don't. Please."

_Sammy? What's wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Who did this to you? What did this to you? Does Dad know?_

"Sammy?"

"Pulse is 100."

Sam took short, fractured breaths as he stared at his brother, still conscious, still breathing, still with him.

"You okay…Sammy?"

"I'm fine, Dean." Sam knew the drill. Understood Dean's need to make sure he was okay before he would allow a fuss to be made over him.

"How about you? You okay?"

It took Dean a while before he could process the question, closing and opening his eyes several times before he could manage an answer.

"Not so…good," he finally admitted. His face was pale, and Sam knew deep down that he was hanging on by a thread.

Sam turned to Dr. Bates for reassurance.

"It's the pain. It's going to do him in if we can't alleviate some of it."

"And we have nothing we can give him?"

"Nothing that won't make something else worse."

"Ellen, do you have anything in the house?" Sam was grasping at straws, his hand protectively across Dean's chest. His brother's heartbeat the only thing keeping him standing.

"Afraid not." Ellen wanted to take Sam by the hand, to let him know he wasn't alone. But deep down she knew he was. It was how he was raised, how they both were, in thinly controlled chaos that forced them to rely on each other for everything.

"Hey, Doc." Ash broke in. "I've got some marijuana."

"Jesus Christ, Ash!" Dr. Bates was dumbfounded, mouth gaping as he stared at Ash. "You have marijuana?"

"Um," Ash hesitated, unsure if he should fess up or run. "Yeah."

"Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"What?" Now it was Sam's turn to stare.

"Ash, go get it, hurry."

"What? Wait. You're not serious?" Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Sam, it's a wonderful pain reliever."

"It's illegal for a reason."

"It's illegal because some zealots in the 1930s thought it should be. Before that it was the primary pain reliever in this country until aspirin was invented."

"Ash, go get it."

"No."

"Ash, go get it while Sam and I discuss this."

"There's nothing to discuss."

Ash didn't bother looking at Sam before disappearing.

"Sam, if I told you I had morphine would you think twice about letting Dean have some?"

Sam hesitated, he knew it was a trick question. "No," he finally said.

"And yet, in Dean's condition, morphine would actually work against him. The marijuana will relax him, help with the spasms."

Sam looked at Dean, gaunt, hollow, lips parted as he tried to breathe past the pain that even in sleep wouldn't leave him alone.

"Sam," Dr. Bates sensed his fear, understood he was close to an overload, and treaded carefully. "Marijuana has been used for pain for thousands of years. You've trusted me this far," he added. "This won't hurt him."

Sam sat and buried his head in his hands. He didn't know what he was afraid of, where the hesitation was coming from. He just knew he couldn't think. Couldn't process. Couldn't for the life of him make one more decision.

"Sam." Bates had to get through to him. "Is it a moral question? Would Dean be opposed?"

Sam laughed. "No," he finally said, the question bringing him back. To a place where he could focus. "No, Dean wouldn't be opposed."

Sam stood and faced Dean, a hand on his shoulder when he stirred, when he opened his eyes.

"Hey, you hanging in there?"

"Don't…think…so." The honesty tore at Sam.

"Well try, okay. I promise you it will get better."

Dean answered with his eyes, in a way only Sam could understand. He was trying, and he was doing it for Sam, but even that was becoming hard to do.

Sam turned to Bates. "Okay," he said, his insides churning.

"Good," Bates began, wasting no time. "You have to guide him through it. It's important that he breathe deeply, get as much of it in his lungs as possible. It may cause him to cough at first, which will be painful, but you need to do whatever it takes to get him to continue. Don't let him stop until I tell you."

Ash stepped forward with a joint in hand, lit and ready to go. Sam took it and turned to Dean.

"Hey, Dean, can you hear me?"

"Hmm."

"So, um, we found something that might make you feel better, but you need to smoke it."

Dean opened his eyes, a look of surprise on his face when he saw the joint in Sam's hand.

"You've got to be…kidding me."

Sam couldn't help but smile. "It's medicinal," he said, for an instant wishing he could smoke it instead. "Doc says it's a proven pain reliever."

"Is this what…it took…for Ash to share?"

"Hey, man, I just wish I'd thought of it sooner." And Ash meant every word.

"So what do you say, you wanna try it?"

Dean shut his eyes tightly against a new wave ripping through his insides, and nodded.

Sam waited for it to pass, then brought the joint to Dean's lips.

"Easy, just a little at first, you don't want it to make you cough."

Too late. The first drag burned his throat, and it was impossible for him not to cough.

"Okay, it's okay. Just wait." Sam had a hand on Dean's chest, trying to get him to calm down.

"All right, let's try this one more time." Dean nodded and Sam was once again humbled by the trust his brother had in him.

Dean managed to get through half of the joint before Dr. Bates had him stop, feeling his pulse and looking closely for a sign that it was working. That the drug was giving him a much needed reprieve.

"Well?" Sam couldn't contain himself.

Dean tried to smile, his attempt falling short. "Better," he offered, happy to see the relief on Sam's face.

Sam let out the breath he was holding and handed the joint back to Ash. "Okay," he said. "You tell me when you need more."

Dean's eyes fluttered and then they were closed. And Sam wondered if the marijuana had really lessened the pain, or just relaxed him to the point he didn't notice. Sam didn't really care either way, as long as his brother was comfortable.

Sam looked at Dr. Bates, who was still fussing over Dean, placing the pillow back under his head, feeling his stomach, his forehead, and felt an overwhelming debt of gratitude.

"Sorry about that," Sam offered.

Dr. Bates brushed him away. "Sam," he began, "I can't understand how Dean has managed to carry on a conversation during the last hour. Frankly, I'm not sure how he's managed to survive. And I can't figure out how you're still standing. If I hadn't seen Dean bleed, and hadn't seen your blood in all those syringes, I'd swear you weren't human. You have nothing to apologize for."

"Now I think it's time to triage," Bates continued, looking around the room. "I know you all must be exhausted, and since we have no idea what daylight is going to bring, I suggest those of you that can, get some rest."

Sam started to protest.

"That doesn't include you, Sam. I know better than to get you out of this room."

"I can sleep anywhere, Ellen," Betty said. "A couch with a blanket and a pillow is all I need."

"I've got a spare room," Ellen said, turning to Sam.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay up with you?" Ellen offered.

"I'm fine. You should get some sleep."

"Your mother would have been so proud of you today," Ellen said, hoping she wasn't overstepping any boundaries. "And of Dean. You two would make any mother proud."

Ellen gave him a hug, an unexpected burst of affection she couldn't resist, and Sam surprised himself when he returned it.

Ash handed Dr. Bates two more marijuana joints. "That's everything I've got," he said before leaving the kitchen.

Betty was checking Dean's vitals one more time before going to bed, a smile on her face when she looked up and met Sam's gaze. "Pulse is 75, BP is 90 over 70," she said. "His temperature is still high, 103.6, but he's doing much better."

And then they were gone, only Dr. Bates remained, checking the IV line, making sure the antibiotic was still pumping into Dean. When he was satisfied, he turned to Sam.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," he said. "I think I've had to go to the bathroom for about five hours."

Sam pulled the blanket up around Dean's chest and watched him sleep. How many times had he done that today?

Today. He turned the word over in his head, marveling at the expanse it covered. He would have sworn under oath that weeks had passed since the old Volkswagon had stalled in the rain, since they had shown up soaking wet, since they had fixed the hole in the roof. The fact that it had been merely hours was hard to fathom. But not as inconceivable as the fact that in between then and now he had taken out his brother's appendix, had gotten an intimate look not only inside Dean's body, but inside his brain as well. And had been terrified by all of it.

Sam pulled the chair close to the table and sat, a hand on Dean's arm as he tried to fight the exhaustion that was forcing his eyes closed. He gave up trying to stay awake and laid his head on the edge of the table, against Dean's shoulder, and slept.

It was a couple of hours before he felt Dean shifting underneath him.

"Hey," Sam said, his voice thick with sleep. "How are you feeling?"

"Hmm."

Sam looked around. Dr. Bates was sitting in a chair a few feet behind him, snoring loudly.

Dean's eyes were still glassy with fever, and Sam automatically placed a hand on his forehead. "You're still really hot," he whispered.

Dean tried to move away from Sam's touch, from the attention. He wanted Sam to stop worrying, but he winced with the effort, having the opposite effect.

"Hey, you okay? You want a couple more hits?" Dean nodded and Sam prayed he was doing the right thing.

Sam lit the joint and helped Dean smoke it, grateful there was no coughing fit. Even half out of his mind with pain and fever Dean's company gave him a semblance of normal, and he was glad the doctor was still sleeping.

After a few minutes Dean pushed Sam away and settled against the pillow, eyes half closed as the drug took effect, as he relaxed. Sam silently thanked the cannabis Gods, and Ash, and decided to worry about dead brain cells later.

Sam found a wet wash cloth and began rubbing Dean's face and neck with it, refusing to stop when Dean tried to bat his hand away.

"Shh," he whispered. "You're really warm."

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"I miss Dad."

"Is that the marijuana speaking or the fact that you almost died 10 times today?" They were the words Sam had wanted to hear, had wanted his brother to say, so they could talk, heal, bond. But after everything they'd been through Sam no longer needed them.

"Prob'ly a little of both."

"I miss him too."

"I know. Everybody knows. You walk around with your gut on your sleeve wherever you go." Dean's eyes were closed, his voice hoarse.

"It's my heart."

"What about your heart?"

"The expression is, he wears his heart on his sleeve."

"I don't do well with hearts."

"So I've noticed."

"You think we'll see him again...someday...when we, you know?"

And Sam's heart broke in a million pieces. "I don't know, man," he said when he could get the words out. Sam looked at his brother, worry clouding his face.

"Did you...is that what you were..." Sam couldn't say it. "Is that where you were going, earlier?"

"He wasn't there," Dean interrupted, forcing his eyes open. "Wasn't calling me. You were."

Sam ignored the pressure in his chest. The suffocating feeling that reminded him how close he'd come to losing his brother. "If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I swear I will kill you myself."

"If I ever get appendicitis again I'll be a freak of nature. But hey, at least then we'll know we're related." Dean tried to laugh, grimacing with the effort.

"Shh," Sam whispered, try and get some sleep." There was no resistance and Dean was out again within minutes.

Sometime around five Dean woke with a start, the pain registering in his eyes immediately. Sam didn't hesitate. Didn't even ask this time, as he lit the second joint and helped his brother smoke it, marveling as Dean relaxed and was asleep within minutes.

By the time daylight filtered through the windows, Sam was so exhausted he didn't hear the commotion in the bar until it had moved into the kitchen. It took him a few minutes to realize what was happening, and when he finally figured out that the two strangers standing with Ellen were paramedics, they had already pushed him out of the way and were working on Dean.

Dr. Bates was talking a mile a minute, giving the paramedics a blow by blow of everything they had done, including everything he was certain Dean needed.

Sam looked at Ellen, too tired to say anything.

"They got Ash's email late last night, but the storm was so bad they didn't get clearance to fly here until this morning.

"They flew here?"

"Helicopter. He'll be at the hospital in no time."

"Sam," Bates said. "He's calling you. You need to calm him down."

The paramedics had wasted no time, and already had two bags hooked up to Dean's IV line. Sam hoped one of them contained a really strong pain killer.

"Hey, Dean, the paramedics are here. They came in a helicopter. You'll be at the hospital in no time, away from all the quacks you've been dealing with. No offense," Sam added, looking at Dr. Bates.

"None taken."

"Helicopter?" Dean's heart skipped a beat.

"Hey, kid, relax. We're going to take good care of you." The older of the two paramedics was feeling Dean's pulse, concerned.

"He's afraid of flying," Sam offered.

The paramedic looked at Dean incredulously. "You let your brother take out your appendix, in a kitchen, in a bar, and you're worried about a helicopter ride?"

Dean shrugged.

The paramedic tried to put an oxygen mask on Dean but he moved away, fighting weakly to keep it off.

"Dean," Sam said. "Relax, man. Let them put you out of your misery."

Dean could barely keep his eyes open, and Sam was sure he was fighting to stay awake just to torture himself.

"You…coming…with me?" And there was the real reason he was still conscious.

Sam looked at the paramedics, not sure what he would do if they said no. Grateful when one of them nodded.

"No problem," Sam said. "You just let them take care of you, okay. Relax, and I promise I will be there when you wake up."

Dean responded by closing his eyes, offering no resistance when the paramedic placed the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

Sam turned to Betty and Dr. Bates, at a loss for words.

"I, I don't know what to say," he stammered.

Betty took his hand. "It's been a real honor to work with you, Sam. We'll be at the hospital the minute we can get there. But I want you to know that you and Dean will always be welcome in our home."

Sam thought he might cry, and forced himself to change the subject. "Hey, Doc, whatever happened to the guy with the foot hanging by a tendon. The one you had to operate on during the war? Cooper. Joe Cooper, right?"

"What?" Betty turned to face her husband. "That's the story you told Sam to build his confidence before the surgery?"

Dr. Bates shrugged, a sheepish look on his face Sam didn't recognize.

"What happened to him?"

"He died," Dr. Bates said.

"Oh. No offense, Doc, but Betty's right. As a confidence booster that one sucks."

"It's bittersweet," the doctor replied. "I was so distraught by the whole thing that when I left the army I looked up his family." Dr. Bates turned to Betty and put his arm around her. "Betty was Joe's little sister."

"Still a lousy pre-op story, Henry."

The paramedics were lifting Dean from the table to a stretcher and Sam felt the need to hover, to make sure his brother was okay.

Dean's eyes were opening and closing, but his features were relaxed and Sam could tell he was feeling no pain. For the first time in hours Sam could feel the tension draining.

It took another five minutes to transfer Dean to the helicopter, barely enough time for Sam to thank Ellen and Ash, to gather their things before running out the door.

Just before takeoff Sam leaned forward and took Dean's hand, feeling no awkwardness when the paramedic glanced in his direction. If anything, he felt a sense of pride, of accomplishment. He felt a deep seated awareness of who he was, what he was made of, what his brother meant to him. He finally understood the family curse and its blessing. And the responsibility that came with it.

Sam felt Dean's mild attempt to squeeze his hand, and he squeezed back, for the first time in a lifetime relaxing against his brother's touch.

---------

So there it is. My heart AND my gut on my sleeve.

I thought of crashing the helicopter, but even I have my limits. :-)

I would love and appreciate your comments.

P.S. I hope the marijuana didn't offend anyone. I live in a state where medicinal marijuana is legal and it's been all over the news lately. When I think of Ash, Dr. BadAss, it's obvious to me that he would have some. And I couldn't ignore it, nor the fact that Sam would have done whatever it took to help Dean feel better. That said, I was happy when Dean said, in Hunted, "One word. Amsterdam. Come on, man, I hear the coffee shops don't even serve coffee." At least I knew for sure Dean wouldn't object.


	11. Chapter 11

a/n – So I thought I was done with this story, but I kept getting asked for an epilogue, and I realized that maybe I had a little bit more to say. Not to mention how flattered I was that people wanted to read more.

But I have to say that Recuperating Dean was harder to write than Going Down Hill Quickly, Almost Dying Dean. It was a whole new concept for me. :-) But I hope I've done him justice. And I hope you enjoy my take as to what happened after the helicopter took off.

Lastly, thank you so much for the wonderful reviews on the last chapter. They were truly incredible, and I so appreciate every single one. Thanks to GS for pushing me along.

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**He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother**

**Epilogue**

The helicopter ride to the hospital was a nail biter. Between the wind and the rain Sam could see nothing out the windows, could only feel the heavy movement of the bird as it swayed precariously from side to side. He was grateful when they touched down on the roof of the hospital, and even more thankful still that Dean had been out for the duration.

Sam waited in the helicopter while a swarm of doctors and nurses met them, tending to Dean as they talked all at once.

"Male, mid to late twenties. Field appendectomy. Temp 103.9."

The young paramedic was rattling off vital signs and Sam leaned his head back and closed his eyes, hoping the sound of the helicopter blades would drown out every word. It was out of his control now. His brother's care and survival depended on someone else. The thought brought with it relief and fear, and Sam found himself sitting on his hands to keep them from shaking.

"Dean Winchester."

Sam sat up at the sound of his brother's name. Someone at the Roadhouse must have given them that information. He tucked it away. Would have to remember when it came time to fill out the paperwork.

--------

It was almost an hour before a doctor came out to talk to Sam. And it wasn't until then that he realized he had been pacing the length of the waiting room the entire time.

"Are you family?" the doctor asked.

"I'm his brother. How is he?"

"He's dehydrated, blood count is low, temperature's up to 104. We've started a transfusion and IVs to counterbalance the fluid loss, and we've switched him to a stronger antibiotic than the one he was on," the doctor paused, giving Sam an opportunity to digest the information before continuing.

"The CT scan doesn't show any abdominal distress, which is good, but we do need to open him up again, as a precaution."

"What?" This was not what Sam was expecting.

"Because the initial surgery wasn't performed in a sterile environment, we can't ignore the possibility of infection. And with his temperature as high as it is, it's likely one has already taken hold. It's a precautionary measure."

"There's no…other way?"

The doctor shook his head. "I don't recommend it. If we wait and see, and something shows up later, he may end up in worse shape. Possibly not strong enough for another surgery."

"Is he strong enough now?"

"I think so."

Sam nodded. The breath knocked out of him. This time he knew what surgery meant. Understood its implications. Could see the scalpel going into his brother's abdomen. Could picture the blood as it trickled out. Could see the muscles and the tendons and the intestines.

"You okay?" The doctor had Sam by the elbow.

"I'm fine. Can I see him?"

"Sure. But he's heavily sedated. He won't know you're there."

"He'll know," Sam whispered.

"He's being prepped. But he'll be coming out those doors in about 10 minutes. You can see him then, on the way to the OR."

Sam found the nearest chair and eased himself into it, every bone in his body rebelling. He reached for his phone and dialed the Roadhouse, putting it away when he couldn't get a signal. Why he thought he could get through he didn't know. He had felt isolated and alone since his father's death. Why should this be any different?

---------

The surgery lasted longer than Sam had expected. And as terrifying as it had been to operate on his brother, nothing compared to the fear of the unknown as the minutes turned into hours.

By the time the doctor found Sam, to tell him everything had gone well until a ruptured blood vessel took the operation in a different direction, Sam was climbing the walls, expecting the worst.

Sam wondered if it was the same blood vessel, if he had missed something while following Bates' instructions, but kept the thought to himself. Instead, he listened as the doctor reiterated Dean's condition, as he assured him that he would recover. As he confirmed what he already knew, that his brother was one lucky bastard.

Lucky or not, the Winchester brand of appendicitis landed Dean in ICU, until his vital signs were stabilized and he didn't need constant monitoring.

The Roadhouse surgical team showed up the instant the rain stopped, while Dean was still in ICU, and Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd been so happy to see someone. With phone service still down everywhere, he had spent two days in the hospital bordering on insanity.

Betty was the first to reach him, putting her tiny arms around Sam as she asked him how he was.

"Have you slept?" she asked.

Sam fidgeted and Betty shook her head. "How's your brother?"

"Not bad," Dr. Bates answered for Sam, as he read Dean's chart. "I take it he hasn't been awake since he arrived?"

"No," Sam said.

"Good," Dr. Bates said absently, feeling Dean's neck for a pulse. "His body needs this down time. Any complications from the second surgery?"

"How did you know there was a second surgery?"

"There had to be, Sam. What we did was stop gap, in a kitchen. The possibility of infection was huge. Any doctor worth his salt would have opened him up again."

"Why didn't you say anything before we left?"

Bates looked Sam in the eye, his expression softening, and Sam wondered if that's how a grandfather might have looked at him if he'd ever known one.

"Never mind," Sam said, appreciating the fact that someone besides his brother had tried to protect him.

---------

"Hey." Sam had been watching Dean struggle to open his eyes for the last five minutes, and he was getting impatient.

Dean looked right through Sam, his eyes open for mere seconds, registering nothing before closing again for another couple of hours.

The next time Dean woke up he managed to keep his eyes open for several minutes, but said nothing, and Sam didn't think he knew where he was, he was so heavily drugged.

On his third attempt, the following morning, Dean registered a flicker of recognition and Sam forced a smile.

"About time," Sam said, attempting to add a lightness to his voice he didn't feel. Except for the visit from the Roadhouse crew, he had spent three days practically by himself, alone with his thoughts, his fears, his insecurities. No one to bounce anything off of. No one catch him if he fell. He had tried to put his brain in solitary confinement, to keep it from going anywhere it shouldn't, and had failed miserably. By the time Dean was ready to join him he was in dire need of salvation.

Dean looked at Sam, past him, around him, as he tried to get his bearings.

"You're in the hospital," Sam offered.

Dean swallowed, his mouth dry as he tried to speak. "Where's…psycho…Bates?" he finally managed.

Sam laughed and cringed at the same time, wondering how much Dean remembered of his Roadhouse ordeal.

"Home, probably. But he's been here." Sam looked at Dean, could still see pain in his eyes, and he wished he would go back to sleep. He couldn't deal with pain anymore. Didn't want to be in charge anymore.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

Straight for the jugular, and Sam felt his breath constricting as the guilt consumed him.

"I'm good," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Like…road kill."

"Road kill usually has better coloring," Sam said, feeling some of the tension leave his body. Why was it that his brother could always bring him back?

"Nice…bedside manner." Dean's eyes closed against his will. And Sam watched him for a long time. Unable to walk away. And he wondered when, if ever, the last few days would stop haunting him.

---------

"Hello," Sam whispered into his phone, not wanting to wake Dean.

"Sam, it's Ellen."

Sam looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Everything's good. How's Dean?"

"Better," Sam answered. "They made him walk up and down the corridor several times today. He sat for a while, ate real food. Well, jello and chicken broth. He even started whining about wanting to get out of here."

"Good. Any idea when they'll release him?"

"Doctor says a few days. Whatever that means."

"Great," Ellen said, hesitating. "I, um…Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you and Dean ever been to St. Louis?"

"Why do you ask?"

"This might be nothing, but some reporter from the local paper got wind of Dean's kitchen table appendectomy and wrote a story on it. He interviewed Bates…"

"Did he interview you?" Sam interrupted.

"No," Ellen said. "I didn't return his calls. You know I serve food out of that kitchen. I figure the health department's going to be all over me any day now as it is."

Sam made a face into the phone.

"Anyway," Ellen continued. "Ash was just screwing around online and it turns out the wires picked up the story. It's everywhere, with both your names in it. And he found someone's blog out of St. Louis speculating if it's the same Dean Winchester that was accused of torturing and murdering some girl."

Sam took a deep breath. "That doesn't make any sense. They have a body."

"What?"

"It was a shapeshifter." Sam offered. "He had Dean's skin. But Dean killed him."

"While he was in Dean's skin?" Ellen had heard stranger things.

"Yes."

"Well, the guy with the blog has come up with a police drawing that was apparently shown on television when they were looking for him."

"Damn."

"Sam," Ellen paused. "It looks like Dean."

"I know," Sam sighed, watching his brother sleep.

"Ash did some digging and the guy's got a following. He's a regular Mulder. Big time conspiracy guy. According to him there were things about the case that didn't fit."

"No shit."

"And he's already got the name of the hospital on the blog."

"Fuck." Sam rubbed his eyes, trying to keep the encroaching panic at bay.

"I don't like this, Sam. Not one bit. Someone can take a picture of Dean with a cell phone and the picture can be online within minutes. I hate to say it, but I think you need to get out of there."

"Yeah. You're right." Sam couldn't take his eyes off his brother. "Um, we don't have a car." Sam paused. "Calling a cab now…"

"No, no cabs, no motels. I can come get you, you can stay here."

"Ellen, once we leave it's a matter of time before someone else gets suspicious. The Roadhouse will be the first place they'll look."

"Bates?"

"Second place they'll look."

"Okay," Ellen said, thinking out loud. "Let me talk to Ash, figure something out. I'll call you back. Is Dean still on oxygen?"

"No, they took him off of it last night."

"Thank God. You need to get him up and dressed. Poor guy. But you need to be ready to get out of there."

Sam hung up the phone and ran his fingers through his hair, refusing to think about anything beyond where his brother's clothes were. Once he had them, he allowed himself to think about the next step, waking Dean.

"Hey," he whispered, shaking Dean by the shoulder. "Come on, man, I need you to wake up."

Dean stirred but kept sleeping.

"Dean, wake up." Sam shook him a little harder. "Come on. That's it, open your eyes."

"Whaaaat?"

"We need to get out of here."

Dean blinked several times, until Sam was in focus. "What? Why?"

"The story of your appendectomy made national news. And someone in St. Louis is digging around."

Dean let the information sink in, processing as quickly as his foggy brain would let him.

"Wait," Dean said, his voice sleepy, the painkillers slowing him down. "My name? How'd they..?"

"Probably Bates," Sam said. "Come on, I'll tell you what I know while we get you dressed."

"I can dress myself."

"Okay, good," Sam said, not about to argue. "Let me just get the IV out."

Sam could see that it was taking a superhuman effort for Dean to stay awake, to make sense of the situation, and he worked quickly as he took off the tape holding the IV in place.

"Sorry about this, man." Dean's hand was warm, and Sam ignored the nagging feeling that told him his brother needed whatever medicine he was about to take from him.

Dean clenched his jaw in anticipation, unconsciously sucking in his breath when Sam pulled out the needle. The prospect of pain was greater than the pain itself, and Dean relaxed immediately, wiping the blood that trickled out on his hospital gown and then rubbing the top of his hand to ease the stiffness.

Sam handed him his clothes and watched helplessly as Dean struggled to sit up and inch his legs over the side of the bed, contorting his face in sync with Dean's own pained expressions.

"Dude," Dean snapped, the frustration evident on his face. "Go be a lookout or something. When's Nurse Ratchet due to wake me up and tell me I need to get some sleep?"

"She was here about 20 minutes ago, so probably not for a while."

"Well, go keep yourself busy somewhere."

Sam turned around, his back to Dean, refusing to leave the room. He knew Dean wasn't up to getting dressed and high tailing it out of there. But he also knew his brother had to do it his way. He would stay close. Just in case.

Dean untied the hospital gown from behind and let it drop off his shoulders and onto his lap, unable to stop the shivering that ran down his arms. As quickly as he could manage, he pulled the t-shirt over his head, biting his lip to keep anything other than his breathing from Sam. The effort to pull his hands over his head left him in pain, and he waited a few seconds before putting on the long sleeve flannel shirt Sam had given him. He looked around for his jacket but didn't see it. He was so cold.

Attempting to put on his sweats was more than Dean could manage on his own, and the slight groan that slipped from his lips was enough to make Sam turn around.

"You okay?"

"Fine," Dean spat out, visibly shaken. "I can't do this on my own," he admitted, angry and exasperated. "Every time I bend down I feel like the incision's going to split open."

"Here, let me help." Sam helped with the sweats, allowing Dean to lean heavily on him when he had to stand. He was relieved when he settled him back on the bed to put his socks and shoes on.

"Where are we going?" Dean asked, his voice tight, his face drained of color.

"Not sure. Ellen's going to call us back."

"We can't go back there."

"I know."

Dean was shivering and Sam was trying to get him to lie down again.

"Dude, what are you doing?"

"There's no use having you sit up until we're ready to go. Lie back while I get your shoes and socks on." To Sam's surprise Dean didn't argue, and he reminded himself to stay in the moment.

Sam brought the covers up to Dean's chest and watched him work to keep his eyes open.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?" Dean said, and Sam recognized the words as his brother's attempt to stay awake.

"What's that?" Sam asked, working on Dean's socks.

"You know that cute little candy striper Kendall promised me a sponge bath tomorrow."

"Right, 'cause she's got to be what, 16?" Sam had moved to the shoes.

"She'll be 17 in April. She's an Aries." Dean's words were beginning to slur.

"Jailbait," Sam countered, not fighting his brother's exhaustion.

"She's a professional…Sammy…get your mind out of the gutter." Dean's shoulders relaxed, his head rolled off to the side, and Sam pulled the blanket up to his neck. No use torturing him anymore until Ellen called with a plan of action.

---------

Sam had put his phone on the lowest setting, and still it startled him when it rang twenty minutes later.

"Ellen?"

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah, we're ready." Sam looked at Dean, sound asleep, dreading what was coming.

"Okay, you need to get downstairs. There's a black Buick LeSabre waiting to pick you up just as you exit the main doors."

"Who's picking us up?"

"Bates."

"What? No, we can't do that to him. He's already done enough."

"He's all we've got, Sam. He's taking you to a friend's cabin a couple of hours north. You'll be fine there for a few days. Until Dean's up to hitting the road. Besides," Ellen added, "I'll feel better knowing Bates is around in case Dean needs anything."

"Me too," Sam said under his breath. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth."

"What?"

"Sam, he's 95. He's heard everything. And the truth is so preposterous he knew I would've never made it up."

Oh God, Sam thought, Dean's going to love this.

"Okay," he said, after mulling over their options and realizing they had none. "We'll be downstairs as quickly as we can."

Sam hung up and closed his eyes, willing his mind and his body to align, for each one to tell the other what it had to do in order to get his brother out of there without causing a stir, without causing him any more pain.

"Hey, Dean, come on, wake up."

Dean woke with a start, and immediately tried to sit up, grimacing with the effort.

"Take it easy." Sam had a hand on his shoulder. "This isn't a marathon. Take your time."

"What's going on?"

Sam froze, his eyes looking deep into his brother's as he tried to convey the urgency of the moment, their predicament, without having to start over.

To his credit, Dean only took a minute to remember. To let the chill curse through his body. "Where's my jacket?" he asked.

Sam helped Dean put on his leather jacket and then looked out into the corridor, making sure no one was in sight before helping Dean off the bed and to the door.

Luckily, Dean's room was a safe distance from the nurse's station, and they were able to turn the corner without being spotted.

Dean was walking as fast as he could, and Sam was biting his nails as they made their way to the elevator in what he was certain was slow motion.

They arrived at the elevator just as the doors opened and a young doctor stepped out, startling them both. Dean didn't skip a beat. "I'm going to miss her so much," he said, his voice an exaggerated sob.

"I know you loved her, but you know she's in a better place."

Dean managed a shuddering breath, and it wasn't until they were safely behind the elevator doors that Sam wondered if the broken sob had been part of the act. Dean was pale, and even with the two shirts and jacket he was shivering.

"Quick thinking there," Sam said, for the time being ignoring his brother's obvious discomfort.

Dean nodded, his eyes closed, his body leaning against the back wall of the elevator. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"Some cabin a couple of hours from here," Sam offered, holding back the rest of the information, thankful when the elevator doors opened.

They continued the grieving spouse act until they were past security and outside, the Buick LeSabre within easy view.

"There it is," Sam said, taking Dean by the elbow.

"Dude, I got it."

Sam knew he didn't, not really, but he fell back behind him, ready to catch him if he had to.

"Who's picking us up?" Dean asked.

Sam pretended he didn't hear him.

Dean peered inside when they had reached the car, turning to Sam with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Please tell me grandma isn't driving the getaway car."

"They know the truth," Sam whispered.

"What? Whose great idea was that?"

"Just get in the car."

"Like I have a choice."

Dean let Sam hold open the door for him as he slid into the back seat, smiling awkwardly at Betty when she turned to face him. Dr. Bates turned around just as Sam got in.

"How are you boys doing?" he asked.

"Good," Sam replied. "Thank you. I mean, thanks for picking us up like this."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean mumbled, once again reminded of his incapacity to take care of himself. Of his brother.

"How are you feeling, Dean?"

"Fine."

Dr. Bates looked at him and smiled before turning around. He would expect nothing less from the young man that had defied logic and survived the appendectomy from hell.

"There's a blanket there if you need it," he said, leaving out Dean's name, certain one of the two would figure it out. Out of habit and concern he had spoken to Dean's doctor earlier that evening, so he knew what medications he was on, that his blood pressure was still low, and that he had a low grade fever he couldn't shake.

Dr. Bates had agreed to pick them up against his better judgment. And only did so when he realized that nothing was going to stop the brothers from taking care of each other, from leaving the hospital on foot if they had to. At least this way he could keep an eye on them until they were ready to be on their own.

Dean leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, and Sam could see he was uncomfortable. So far Dean had only managed to be out of bed for a few minutes at a time, and the thought of his brother forced to sit through a two hour drive had Sam worried.

They were barely out of the hospital parking lot when Sam realized Dean couldn't stop shaking from the cold. He took the blanket and wrapped it around his brother's body, watching silently as Dean searched for a position that he could tolerate. Sam was grateful for the silence, for the fact that Bates and Betty pretended not to notice. For the fact that Dean accepted the warmth of the blanket as he settled back and fell asleep.

---------

The chugging sound of the train drowned everything but Dean's frantic yelling as he searched every compartment for his family. They had just been there, talking to him. They were laughing. His mom was smiling. His dad was reading Sammy a story.

"Where are they? Where's my family?"

The conductor looked at him, a sad expression on his face. "You came on board alone."

"No. No. I was with them. They were with me. My family. Where are they?"

"Come with me. We're about to start the operation."

"Not without my family."

"You have no family. You have no one. You are alone."

The conductor held up a syringe and smiled. Crooked yellow teeth protruded from his lips and Dean forced himself to look away from them, to look the conductor in the eyes as he pleaded for his family. But the yellow light was blinding, swallowing the conductor, the passengers, everything in its sight.

He had to stop it. Had to stop the yellow light. He pulled the alarm chain above his head and heard the screeching of the tracks before he went flying through the air, away from the light, away from everyone and everything in its path. Into darkness.

Dean woke with a start, his hand against the back of the front passenger seat, stopping him from falling. He felt Sam's hand on his back before he remembered where he was, before the yellow light disappeared into his subconscious. Before he could catch his breath.

"Hey," Sam whispered, waiting for Dean to come back, to lift his head and tell him he was with him.

Dean groaned and pushed himself back against the seat, the blanket on his lap, a hand across his stomach, his eyes tightly closed as he searched his brain for answers. And Sam knew he wasn't quite with him.

Dr. Bates turned slowly and made eye contact with Sam, his gaze wanting to know if they should pull over, if he needed to do something. Sam shook his head and Dr. Bates nodded, the concern on his face impossible to hide.

"We're almost there," Bates said, the words bringing Dean to the present, to the car and the cloying feeling of claustrophobia.

Dean looked at Sam, seeing him for the first time since the nightmare, relief flooding his insides at the sight of his brother. At the family he had left.

Betty had exited the highway and Sam noticed they were starting up a mountain road following signs to Mt. Laramie.

"Are we in Wyoming?" he asked.

"Just a little ways past the state line," Betty answered. "We have some friends that have a cabin up here. We usually come a few times a year."

Sam could see Dean's jaw clench every time Betty took a turn. And he wondered for the first time if someone in her nineties should be driving. She was going no more than 10 miles an hour, practically stopping every time the road curved.

"How much further?" Sam was asking for both of them, his stomach turning every time Betty slowed down.

"It's not far. About six miles up the mountain."

Dean pressed his face against the window, hoping the cold against his skin would keep the impending nausea at bay.

Sam watched Dean struggle, torn between doing something and honoring his brother's privacy. He knew Dean was tired of being sick, of being the patient. So Sam waited, forcing himself to ignore every turn, every curve, every sudden stop as Betty inched her way up the mountain. Until she stopped suddenly, a deer grazing in her path, and he could no longer ignore the look on Dean's face.

"Betty, pull over."

"What?"

"I'm sorry," Sam said. "But I'm really car sick and I think I'm going to throw up."

Betty found a turnaround further up and pulled in, stopping the engine just as the brothers bolted from the car. She was about to get out, to see if Sam was okay, when her husband stopped her.

It took everything Dean had to get out of the car and close the door behind him, and he wondered how he was going to get his legs to stop shaking long enough for him to get away from the car, far enough away that he could be sick in peace.

Once again Sam read his mind, and Dean found himself leaning heavily into him as they made their way to a clearing behind several large boulders.

By the time they stopped the cold had allowed Dean to focus on something besides the churning of his stomach, and the terrible urgency to throw up was gone. All that was left was a queasy feeling he could live with.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded, his eyes shut as he leaned against a boulder. "Thanks," he finally managed.

"I figured it was my turn for a little attention," Sam joked.

"Amen."

They stood in silence, for several long minutes, neither one wanting to get back in the car.

"Why isn't Norman driving?" Dean finally asked, eyes still closed.

"My guess is he can't."

"I can't get back in there."

"I know. Another couple of miles and I would've lost my lunch."

Dean grimaced at the thought of food, the jello he'd had for dinner very close to the surface.

"Can't do it, Sammy. I will kill myself first."

Dean opened his eyes and Sam was pretty sure he meant it.

"They're so nice. What are we gonna say?"

"I don't know, but you've got to take over for her or I'm going to grab the wheel and plunge us down the mountain."

"All right, fine. I'll think of something."

Dean pushed himself away from the boulder, every bone in his body chilled as he forced his body forward. He could see Sam hovering out of the corner of his eye, and he ignored him, refusing to give him anything else to worry about.

Dr. Bates was standing by the car, waiting for them. "You all right, Sam?" he asked, his eyes giving Dean a quick scan.

"Yeah, fine, thanks. Hey, Doc," Sam stammered.

"Sam," the doctor interrupted. "Betty's tired, she's not used to driving this road at night, and I've been banned from driving in all 50 states. You mind taking over?"

Their eyes connected again and Sam was certain he loved Dr. Bates.

"Dean, why don't you sit in the front. That way Betty and I can cuddle in the back."

The visual was more than Dean could handle, but for an instant he could see why Sam was completely enamored with the old man.

---------

If it was possible, it was colder inside the cabin than outside, and Dean was beginning to wonder if he would ever be warm again. Betty turned on the heater as soon as she walked in and Dr. Bates started a fire in the fireplace, urging Dean onto the couch as soon as he was done. Dean wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire, but his natural instinct was to rebuff the attention and deny himself what he needed. Bates waited until Sam was out of the room, unloading the car, before speaking to Dean.

"Listen," he began, his voice gentle but firm. "I understand that your priority right now is to keep your brother from worrying anymore than he already is, but I also know, from speaking to your doctor earlier today, that you have no business being out of the hospital."

Dean flinched, but stayed put, and Dr. Bates continued, undeterred by the look of contempt staring him down.

"I cannot stand by and let you be irresponsible about your care."

"I'm fine," Dean interrupted, his jaw clenched, the incipient anger unchecked.

"You have a temperature, and you were dizzy when you got out of the car, because your blood pressure still isn't where it should be."

Dean took a deep breath. He wanted to deck the guy, but when he looked Bates in the eye he couldn't deny the assessment. Why was it so hard for him to accept help? To admit he needed it?

"Sam's a mess," was all he could say. _That's right, Dean, turn it around, make it about Sam._

"You don't give him enough credit," Bates replied. "But while you figure that one out, you take it easy or I'll have him on your ass."

_You're good_, Dean thought. "Sam's going to worry no matter what."

"I can't help that," Bates said, his voice softening. "That's something you two will have to see a therapist about some day."

"We'd have to kill him when we were done," Dean mused.

"Maybe. Maybe he'd commit suicide and save you the trouble."

Dean laughed in spite of himself.

"Now," Bates said, "get on the couch, put your feet up, while I go get you an antibiotic and a pain killer. And as soon as the rooms are ready you need to lie down."

Realizing he'd just been blackmailed by a 95 year-old that could probably take him down, Dean nodded and did as he was told, secretly grateful to be off his feet.

Dean watched Sam interact with Betty, listened to him make meaningful small talk, in an easygoing manner that betrayed none of the nerves he had seen the last couple of days, and he wondered when his little brother had grown up. And what he had missed at the Roadhouse that had precipitated the change.

Some of his own memories from the Roadhouse were etched in his brain, embedded there for eternity, a cruel injustice on top of the assault. The sound of Sam's voice pleading with Bates to do the surgery, the shaking of his brother's arms when he tried to shield him from the pain, the look in Sam's eyes right before he went under. They were images that fought each other for attention every time he closed his eyes. Images he couldn't justify with his father's last words.

He had lived with those words screaming in his head every day, every hour, for weeks, but now they were being crowded out by an even stronger presence. By the image of his brother as he moved mountains to save him. It was impossible for him to reconcile that image with the one his father had painted.

Dr. Bates interrupted the schizophrenic thoughts with a glass of water and a couple of pills, and Dean was suddenly grateful for the ache in his side, for the distraction from the screaming. He swallowed the pills without looking at them, without asking what they were, hoping they contained a magic ingredient that would force a dreamless sleep until he felt better. Until everyone stopped treating him like an invalid. Until he was well enough to put the walls up and move on.

Dean leaned back and closed his eyes, effectively keeping the doctor from hovering. From looking too closely and making accurate medical assessments he didn't want to hear. Luckily, he was asleep within minutes, and he vaguely noticed when Sam dragged him into the bedroom an hour later.

For the next two days Dean hid inside his head. Sleeping whenever he could, pretending he was sleeping when he couldn't. Eating the bare minimum to keep Sam and Bates off his back. And while the forced rest did his body good, the extra time spent with his thoughts did nothing to quell the uneasy feeling that had been brewing for days. The feeling of helplessness brought on by the debilitating memories. By the fact that something as simple as appendicitis had brought him to his knees. By the constant reminder that he was human.

On the third day the introspection was more than he could bear and Dean was ready to leave. To hit the road in search of trouble. In search of the elusive peace he found when he hunted. That undeniable feeling of strength he got every time they found something evil and destroyed it. He needed to feel something other than fear.

Dean found Dr. Bates sitting on the front porch, a bottle of scotch next to him, a glass in his hand.

"Kinda early to be hitting the bottle there, Doc."

"It's five o'clock somewhere," Bates replied. "Care to join me?"

"To bond? Or to have a drink?"

"I figure you could use a drink."

Bates almost laughed at the look on Dean's face.

"What about all that don't drink when you're on medication stuff?" Dean could have kicked himself the minute the words left his mouth.

"Are you planning on using heavy machinery? Go get yourself a glass before I change my mind. And Betty gets back."

Dean walked faster than he had managed in nearly a week, and was back on the porch within seconds.

"So you scared of Betty?" he teased.

"Hell yes," Bates replied, pouring Dean more scotch than he knew he should.

"Where is she? And Sam?"

"They went into town. Betty wanted to get some groceries, get her hair done. Sam offered to drive her. Actually," Bates added, "I paid him."

Dean felt the scotch burn his throat and ignored it, preferring to focus on the warm sensation as it filled his stomach.

"Come on, what was all that talk the other night about cuddling in the back seat?"

"Oh she's cuddly all right." Bates joked. "But the damn woman's got me taking herbs to improve my memory and my stamina. Scotch doesn't fit into her new found regimen."

"Wanting to improve your stamina can't be all bad," Dean mused, not sure he wanted to pursue the conversation.

"Improving my stamina means I can take the trash out without having to take a break."

"You showed stamina at the Roadhouse," Dean offered, unable to keep the memories away for any length of time.

"If you only knew," the doctor said, staring straight ahead, lost in his own memories of that fateful day. "I swear when you woke up in the middle of Sam…"

"What?"

Dean's tone brought the doctor back to the present, to the harsh reality he couldn't believe he had just exposed.

"In the middle of what?" Dean asked, not about to let it go.

Dr. Bates turned to face Dean, his expression solemn. "I'm sorry, Dean," he said. "I can't believe I just said that."

"What did you say? When I woke up in the middle of Sam what?" Dean's heart was racing. What else did Sam endure that he didn't know about? That he didn't remember?

Dr. Bates sighed, unable to come up with a satisfactory lie, not really wanting to. "We ran out of nitrous oxide when Sam was closing you up," he finally admitted. "So Sam had to, well, actually, no, Ellen ended up finishing the sutures. Sam couldn't…" Dr. Bates paused, the memory vivid inside his head. "Sam chose to be with you. To get you through it."

Dean instinctively wrapped an arm across his stomach and shuddered. "I…I don't remember that," he said, his voice low as he searched his memories.

"No, you wouldn't. We were still pumping versed into you at that point. It would keep you from remembering."

"Sam." Dean wasn't aware he'd said his brother's name out loud as he added one more unthinkable image to the array that was already keeping him awake at night. He took a large gulp of scotch and leaned back, his hand still clutching his stomach.

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Doc, I'm glad I know."

"Sam's not going to be happy."

"Sam's in love with you," Dean teased. "Besides, I'm not going to say anything."

"Why not?"

"What good would it do? He would just worry more than he already is."

"I get it," Dr. Bates said, the tone in his voice hard for Dean to decipher. "This way you can do the worrying for both of you. Hang on to the burden all on your own."

Dean looked at the doctor, his expression softening when he looked in his eyes. "It's my job to protect him, not the other way around."

"Sam gets that. But by shutting him out you're not protecting him."

"What are you, Dr. Phil?"

Dr. Bates raised his eyebrows. "You watch Dr. Phil?"

"No," Dean paused. "I, um, saw him on Oprah once."

"I won't tell anyone," Dr. Bates laughed. "Now we're even. You keep my secret, I'll keep yours."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their scotch, until Bates decided he had more to say, and he was too old to keep his mouth shut.

"You know, Dean," he began. "I'm no expert on post traumatic stress disorder."

"You gotta be kiddin' me," Dean interrupted.

Bates was unfazed, and kept talking. "Like I said, I'm no expert on PTSD, but I would think that if ever a situation was traumatic, those hours at the Roadhouse would be at the top of the list."

Dean tried to interrupt again but Bates put his hand up to stop him.

"Not just for you, but for Sam as well." Now he had Dean's attention. Bates felt uneasy using Sam to get to Dean, but what he recalled of battle scarred war heroes quickly overrode any guilt. "You can't discount emotional trauma – and God knows Sam went through hell and back. And he's still worried about you."

Dean took another drink. "Sammy – he worries all the time."

"And you shut him out?"

"Sounds about right." The scotch was definitely helping the conversation along.

"Why?"

Beating around the bush, speculation, Dean could deal with. Straightforward, not so much.

"It's easier that way."

"For who?"

Good question, Dean thought, since nothing had felt easy lately. Had anything ever felt easy to him? Maybe when he was four.

Bates didn't wait for Dean to answer. "Sam's only saving grace is the fact that he doesn't want to deal with this on his own. He's smart enough to know he needs to talk about it."

"And he's been talking to you?" Dean wasn't surprised. Was actually glad Sam had been able to talk to someone.

"And Betty. A little. But we can only help so much. We're not the ones he really needs to talk to."

Dean didn't know if it was the scotch or the dull ache in his side he couldn't shake, but something was tugging at his defenses, screaming at him to let it out, to release the burden that was weighing him down.

"I don't know what to say to him," Dean finally admitted. "I feel like I failed – to protect him. To keep him from hurting anymore than he already was." Dean couldn't mention his father, whose loss had started the cycle of pain to begin with. He was certain that any reference to his father would send him over the edge.

"It's not as if you had a choice on the appendicitis, Dean. You can't always control your body."

"I can't afford to be out of control. Sam can't afford it."

"And because of that you were there for Sam every step of the way," Bates replied. "I don't know how, but when he needed you most you were there. You did not let him down. Hell, the fact that you survived is a testament to what you're willing to do for your brother."

"I can't close my eyes without seeing the agony he went through that day. What I put him through."

Dr. Bates treaded lightly. "Do you ever close your eyes and think about your own pain?"

"Sometimes," Dean admitted, staring at his empty glass. "But I can deal with that. I can't deal with Sam's."

Bates noticed Dean wrap both arms across his stomach, his body language betraying the façade he was trying so hard to believe, to make everyone believe. That he was fine. That it was all about Sam. That the physical torture he went through was gone and forgotten.

"I'm guessing that in your line of work, you see a lot of things."

"About that," Dean interrupted.

Bates held a hand up. "No need to defend or explain. Or deny. Ellen's too smart to make something up like that."

"That's fair," Dean mused. "How about some more scotch then?"

"I'm afraid you've already had more than you should."

Dean was disappointed, the idea of obliterating his existence with alcohol a passing fancy that was suddenly very appealing.

"Then maybe you can double up on the pain killers tonight," Dean said. "You know, get me past the REM phase of sleep a little quicker. Into that space where nothing exists."

Dr. Bates scratched his head, not sure how he came to care about these boys as much as he did. He worried about what they did for a living. About the fact that they existed in a world where they had to watch each other's backs constantly. In a world that had just thrown them a curve ball they never saw coming. He had seen enough to know they would always look out for each other, but he worried that Dean, the protector, would die before showing any vulnerability again. And that of course, would destroy them both.

"How are the nightmares?" Bates asked, pouring himself another scotch, giving Dean a thimble full.

Dean looked at Bates, a slight look of defeat on his face. "Did Sam tell you?"

"He's concerned about you," Bates said, unable to lie.

"I know," Dean answered, his voice low as he retreated inside his head. He couldn't recall a specific nightmare, only the fact that they were constant, and that they all took place in the Roadhouse, amidst the agony and the torture and the pain and the hope and the fear. And they all ended the same, in a blinding yellow light that obliterated everything in its path. The good, the bad, indiscriminate in its choices. And left him shaking, breathless, numb.

"You want to talk about them?"

"I can't," Dean said. "Unless, in your medical opinion, you think more scotch might help loosen me up."

"My medical opinion would have you in the hospital," Bates offered. "All kinds of things pumping into you. An IV filled with scotch would not be one of them."

Bates knew Dean was done talking, and it was time to stop pushing. He was surprised he had said as much as he had, certain the combination of the alcohol and the pain killers had weakened his resolve and the misguided notion that he had to be a superhero in the eyes of everyone.

Dean drank the tiny bit of scotch Bates had poured the second time and leaned back, the cold air on his face, his eyes open as he tried to stay away from the haunting images that were constantly swimming in his head. After a while his brain gave up the fight and his body won, his eyes closing against his will as he fell into a fitful sleep. He never heard Sam and Betty pull up, never noticed the blanket Betty draped across him. Never saw the yellow light coming.

---------

"Dean! Dean! Wake up. It's all right. Wake up." Sam gripped Dean's shoulders as his brother took in huge gulps of air, his hands flailing as if pushing someone away.

"Leave me alone," Dean yelled, eyes closed, still fighting for peace.

"Dean, wake up!" Sam shook him hard, grimacing at the look of pain that crossed his brother's face.

And then it stopped, the desperate sucking for air became a low shuddering wheeze, the angry movements a slight quiver. The clenched jaw relaxed as Dean opened his eyes, focused on nothing as he took in his surroundings. As he gathered himself tightly against his own body, the realization of where he was a harsh reminder of where he'd been.

"Hey," Sam was trying to control his own shaking as he slowly released Dean's shoulders, afraid to let go. Afraid not to.

Dean watched Sam with a penetrating look so raw and so naked, that Sam flinched, unable to do anything but stare back. An attempt to look inside, decipher what was going on so he could help his brother. But as quickly as the soul opened, it was closed again, the protective front returning as soon as Dean got his bearings.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded and swallowed hard, the taste of scotch in his mouth a bitter reminder of his condition, his predicament.

Sam saw Dr. Bates standing in the doorway, waiting for instructions. Waiting to see if he was needed. Sam shook his head and watched him disappear into the cabin before turning to face his brother.

"You want to talk about it?" Sam felt like a broken record. How many times over the last three days had he asked the same thing?

Dean shook his head. But then he saw the look of dejection in Sam's eyes, and he felt compelled to throw him a bone. Anything to get that look out of his head.

"I can't remember," Dean whispered, finding it hard to control his voice.

"Any of it?"

"Yellow light," Dean offered, the words exhausting him.

"There was a yellow light?"

Dean nodded and closed his eyes, leaning his head back as he tried to ignore the pounding in his chest.

"Was there anything else?"

Dean wanted so desperately to help his little brother. To help himself. But he didn't know where to begin. Why was it so hard for him to reach out? To let someone in? What were these dreams telling him that he couldn't figure out when he was awake?

"I don't know, Sam…" Dean caught the anger in his voice and stopped. He was in this place a week ago, on their way to the Roadhouse, his brother's presence a painful reminder of his inability to deal. With his father's death. His grief. Life. And that was before Sam had shown his mettle. An undeniable strength he had never known was there. And for the life of him Dean couldn't go back to that place. To the space and time that was so painful he would forget to breathe as easily as he could avoid his brother and everything he stood for.

Dean looked at Sam and tried again. "I'm having a hard time," he began, forcing himself to breathe, "getting past that…day."

Sam nodded, afraid of opening his mouth for fear of saying the wrong thing and having Dean shut down again.

"Every time I shut my eyes I see something new, something awful. I see you. I see me, incapable of protecting you." The words were the most hard-fought Dean had ever said, and he had to force himself to stay where he was, in mind and body.

"Dean, you can't always protect me. Sometimes you need protecting too. You're human."

Dean bit his lower lip, an attempt to ground himself in the moment. "It scares me to think that," he said, his voice soft and measured.

"That you're human?"

"I've spent my life hunting evil, monsters, and the thing that almost does me in…"

"Is what separates you from what we hunt," Sam interrupted.

Dean thought about that for a minute, the concept too big for him to grasp all at once.

"It's the same thing that saved you," Sam continued. "It's humanity. It's Bates."

"Bates didn't save me, you did."

"Without Bates I would have killed you."

"Without you I would have died."

Dean waited while the words reached his brother, while they made their presence known. This was as far as he could go. His heart pounding as he allowed himself the luxury of feeling. As he let his brother in ever so briefly, for a glimpse inside his tortured soul.

"I get that," Sam said softly as he let the words sink in. "But you seem to forget that it's a two way street."

"It's not that I forget," Dean said, his breath catching in his throat, the desire to run stronger than before. "It's that I never knew."

The words slammed Sam hard against his chest, but he caught himself quickly and Dean didn't notice, he was so wrapped up in his own thoughts. His own insecurities.

Sam ignored everything he wanted to say – that he was shocked and stunned and hurt that his brother didn't know how he felt about him, because it wasn't what Dean needed. What he needed was permission to let go. A release of the guilt and the fear that was eating him alive.

"Dean," Sam finally managed. "I've spent my entire life being looked after. By Mom, by Dad, by you. Hell, even by Jessica, because I was a mess when we met," Sam paused, making sure his brother was listening before continuing. "And I know you're worried about me, about what I went through that day, and I'd be lying if I told you it didn't shake me to the core. But I'm so glad that I was there for you. I'm actually pretty proud of myself."

Sam's words caught Dean by surprise. Maybe that's what he noticed the night they arrived at the cabin. That maturity he hadn't seen before. It hadn't occurred to him that his brother had felt a victory, a triumph, as a result of that day. All he could see was pain and anguish. Maybe it was his own he had tried to project onto Sam. Dean instinctively wrapped his arms tightly against his body, the sheer weight of the realization catching him off guard.

"You okay?"

Dean nodded, the urge to put up the walls hard to resist. "So I gave you something to be proud of," he finally managed, the thought swirling in his head.

"And I gave you another scar."

"Doesn't seem fair."

"It never is," Sam mused. "In love and war. In the Winchester household."

"That household has dwindled," Dean said, thoughts of his father, of loss, never far from the surface.

"Yeah, but what's left is a force to be reckoned with."

Suddenly Dean could see Sam as more than the kid brother he had to protect at all costs. His father's words were still there. His fear for lack of understanding was still there. But something else was clamoring for attention. It was a newfound respect for all that he held dear and close and in his heart. For all that he had left. For Sam.

"I need to get out of here," Dean finally said.

"I know. Betty and Doc offered to take us to the Volkswagon whenever we're ready."

"I'm ready."

Sam nodded, unable to hide the skepticism that crossed his face.

"Dude, I am so ready."

"I spoke to Ash today. The demon's not in Palo Alto anymore."

"Where is he?"

"He doesn't know. There are no signs of him. Which is too bad. A drive to California would've been good."

"I thought you said you wouldn't go back there."

"That was before," Sam said, searching his brother's face. Hoping he could see the release he could hear in his voice.

"Before what?"

"Before I knew you had 10 lives. When I thought my emotions would get you killed."

"And now?"

"Now I know you're not going anywhere no matter what I do to you."

"I guess once you operate on your brother on a kitchen table, the sky's the limit."

"How's your spleen? You attached to it?"

Dean couldn't help but smile as he leaned back and closed his eyes, relieved when the images came and he didn't shudder. Didn't flinch. He understood now that they would never go away, would only fade with time, and would forever serve to remind him that he was human. That he could hurt and bleed and still protect his brother. Still hunt evil and make the world a better place.

FIN

---------

This is definitely it. Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

PLEASE let me know your comments. I would so appreciate them.


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